


Kinktober 2018: Captain Allen/Reader

by teasoni



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Asphyxiation, BDSM, Begging, Choking, Cunnilingus, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Emetophilia, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Face-Fucking, Face-Sitting, Femdom, Fluff, Food Kink, Food Play, Kinktober, Knifeplay, Lingerie, Mirror Sex, Power Play, Public Sex, Reader-Insert, Sex Pollen, Sex Work, Uniform Kink, female reader w/ associated genitalia, im in hell!!!!!!!! thanks for coming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 14:34:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 36,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16243658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teasoni/pseuds/teasoni
Summary: A collection of one-shots written for kinktober. Not meant to be read linearly and the relationship between Allen and the reader may vary with each chapter.Kink list can be found here: https://kinktober2018.tumblr.com/post/171107184776[note: this fic won't be finished by the end of october (probs sometime in november) bc life is like that ig]





	1. Face-Sitting

**Author's Note:**

> to be honest i didn't even plan on doing kinktober this year but here we are

You’re _pissed_.

It’s been almost two weeks since you last had a moment alone with David Allen, the man who is _supposedly_ your lover, but who doesn’t seem to be doing much loving at all – what with the sudden explosion of deviancy in Detroit and the rest of the state, he’s been swamped with office work and callouts. Usually you’d be fine with that – it came with the territory, really - but it’s never been this long before and you’re getting antsy. You barely see him outside of work anymore.

Enough, you decide, is enough. You’re going to wrestle and orgasm or two out of Allen even if you have to handcuff him to his own damn bed to do it.

When you arrive at his apartment you can tell immediately that something’s off. The entire place is silent and tense, not unlike the pressure of the air before the breaking of a storm; you knock, but nobody replies, and it’s only after your third attempt that you finally hear the heavy trudge of footsteps heading towards the door.

Allen looks like shit.

His face is grey, eyes weighed down by spectacularly dark shadows, and his hair looks as if it hasn’t been brushed in days. After blinking at you for a few seconds he lets you inside without a word.

“I’m sorry,” he begins, his voice rough from what you assume is lack of sleep. “I should’ve called –,” But he doesn’t get a chance to finish, not when you press an open-mouthed kiss to his lips. His words melt into a groan.

“You look like shit,” you murmur against his mouth, and he hums, knowing full well how bad he must appear. You kiss him again, again, craving the feel of him, _missing_ it.

“I’ve had four hours of sleep in the last two days,” he replies as his hands find your waist, fingers sinking into the soft cotton of your shirt and into the flesh beneath. A man parched of affection; he mouths along your jaw, drawing in the scent of your perfume and lingering lemon-myrtle oil.

“I came to help you with some stress relief.” You spy his laptop sitting open on the sofa, the screen cut by lines of text from yet another police report. “You’re still working?”

“Mhm.” His mouth is on your again, obliterating any other distraction, and his chin is prickly with day-old stubble. _Oh, dear._ He must be _really_ stressed out.

David Allen is usually the top dog. He’s a natural leader with a no-nonsense attitude and a firm hand, both at work and out of it. In the bedroom, too. He prefers taking charge, and for the most part, that’s just fine with you. But there are times – rare as they are – where the reins fall into _your_ hands. It isn’t something you discuss: it’s something you _feel_ , a change in temperament, a shift in mood. Now is one of those times. Allen’s head lolls tiredly against your neck.

“Come on,” you urge him, taking his hand and leading him down the hallway to his bedroom. You know the path by heart. He follows along silently behind you, the hand not caught in your own finding your waist and clinging to it. It’s only a matter of a few firm shoves and he’s sprawled on his back on the bed, your fists wound in his shirt and your weight pressing him into the mattress. “I’ve been very lonely,” you tell him, voice a burning whisper against his lips. For the briefest of moments he looks guilty, but it doesn’t last for long, especially not when you push your knee up between his thighs. Allen’s head tips back and he _groans_ , a delicious sound. Unable to resist the temptation of his throat, you drag your tongue over his jugular and feel it jump beneath your touch.

His hands grope at your thighs, desperately searching for your belt. You swat him away with a click of your tongue. You’d come here for a good fuck, sure, but it would appear you just might be able to get a game out of it, too.

“Did you forget about me?” you purr. “You left me all alone for two weeks, and my fingers don’t feel like yours do.” His thumb presses against your inner thigh, over the artery. He can feel it pulse. “I deserve to be pissed, don’t you think?”

“Oh, definitely.” He’s grinning, damn him, those perfect white teeth glimmering in the hazy light of the evening. It’s impertinent. Annoyance prickles in your throat, tempering your playfulness. But that’s fine. You can work with that.

“Hands off.” You slap his hands away again. “Rule number one: no touching. I’m the injured party, captain, so I call the shots. Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The grin is gone, now, replaced instead by a barely-there smirk; you can see his tongue run over his teeth behind his lips. Wasting no time, you slip off your belt and work at the button of your trousers, wrestling them off your legs until you can fling them across the bedroom. Allen merely lies there watching you with dark, hungry eyes.

Oh, you’ve missed this – the way he looks at you like he wants to tear you apart with his teeth. You stroke his face gently for a moment before shifting above him, crawling up the length of his body until your knees sink into the mattress on either side of his head. Allen licks his lips; the gesture is catlike, wanting, anticipating. Part of you almost wants to make him wait, but… you’re not sure how long _you’ll_ last.

“Here’s how this is going to play out: you’re going to eat me out until your jaw aches and then I’m going to ride you until you black out.” How you can put one word in front of another is beyond you – your brain has gone foggy with lust already, just from seeing Allen’s face between your thighs. “Then you’re going to sleep and shower and eat something that isn’t junk.”

He chuckles at that last part, almost a little abashed by your concern. He licks his lips again, but doesn’t talk back. _So the top dog_ can _follow orders._

It’s easy enough to slip your underwear to the side and sink down onto his face. Lord only knows he’s done this enough times before – his lips part beneath your weight and he drags his tongue up through your folds, grinding it against your clit until you shiver.

“Oh, that’s… that’s good,” you sigh, running your hand through his hair and scraping your nails against his scalp. You rock your hips gentle down against his face as he settles into a rhythm: a push and pull of the tongue, mouthing words against your cunt until your thighs begin to tremble and you’re forced to lean back against his chest for lack of strength in your legs. You’re vaguely aware of his short gasps of breath whenever you let up a little, or whenever he’s forced to drag his mouth away from you to breathe. You push and he pulls and it’s a dance, heavy and wet and hungry. “God, _David_ –,”

His arms lock around your thighs as you come; he’s _strong_ , too, muscles flexing as you try to squirm away, your body heaving and tensing as your climax rolls through you, a kiss of sweet, sweet release. His mouth continues its assault, never slowing, never stopping, and soon all you can do is half-scream-half-cry at the overstimulation. Allen laps at your wetness, his mouth and chin dripping with it, drawing out the weak aftershocks of your orgasm. You grip his hair tight between your fingers – tight enough to sting, surely, though Allen doesn’t give anything away – and, helpless to do otherwise, you jerk your hips up over his face until your clit butts against his nose

And then you make the mistake of looking down – down at those springwater-clear eyes, which are staring right back up at you, one eyebrow slightly raised. You can feel his smirk against your cunt as you struggle to regain your breath. _Fuck you_ , you want to say, but you don’t, because your tongue is useless as jelly between your teeth.

“David…” you whine when he refuses to let up, continuing his mouthing between your legs with the same abandon of a starving man brought to food for the first time. _Looks like I’m not the only one who’s been craving this,_ you think vaguely, your fingers resuming their stroking. “That’s so… keep doing that…”

And he does. He does, he does, he does, until you’re shaking and cursing, curling over his head as he wrings orgasm after orgasm out of you. He’s a talented man with a talented tongue. You learn that _very_ well.


	2. Begging

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> since i'm a lazy bastard and started kinktober like a week late or whatever this will probably run into november. time isnt real.

_Please_ is not a word in Captain Allen’s vocabulary. He is not a negotiator – he’s a captain, used to giving orders and having them followed down to the line. He doesn’t ask. He demands.

Even with you he’s that way; he never asks because he doesn’t _need_ to. You’re always ready to accept him, to receive him, always craving and needing and thirsting after every part of him. He takes what he wants and gives you what you need, and vice versa, an infinite tug-of-war like that between the ocean and the moon. It’s not a fault, not really. It’s just part of who he is. And you… well. You still love it just like you love every other part of him. It’s hopeless. Unending.

But this time… this time you won’t let him just take what he wants without asking for it. Which is how you’ve ended up in this game of cat-and-mouse, you feigning innocence and him growing more and more frustrated at your sudden density.

“I want to fuck you,” he snarls against your neck, shoving you up against the closed door of your apartment after following you home. “God, I need it –,”

You smile, ever so slightly, as his tongue rasps over your throat. It’s always incredible to see a man like Allen pushed to the edge of desperation. “That’s no way to ask a lady for her favour,” you tease. “Ask nicely, David.”

Pulling back from you, he sighs heavily. You’re still caged against the door by his arms, pinned by the incredulity of his expression. “ _Please_ may I fuck you, ma’am?”

You can’t help it – you burst out laughing and Allen’s perplexity only deepens.

“You really suck at saying _please_ , don’t you?”

A smile manages to crack past his frown; you’ve touched on something tender, it seems. “Maybe.”

You kiss him. It’s a slow, lingering kiss that has him leaning into you, chasing your lips. “I think you need some practice, don’t you?”

Perplexity shifts to curiosity. “What do you have in mind?”

You push past him and into your apartment. It’s dark and you don’t bother to turn on the lights. You toss your coat over the back of a chair, step out of your shoes, leave a trail of clothing to your bedroom. Allen follows it like a dog on a scent. Soon he’s standing in the doorway to your bedroom, little more than a looming black shadow, as you finish undressing. Your voice permeates the darkness, soft, promising.

“Take off your clothes.”

He does. His eyes do not leave you.

“Sit on the bed.”

He does. Curiosity has silenced him. You move to stand in front of him, knees touching, and take his hands. You place his fingers against the cotton of your underwear.

“Please let me fuck you,” he whispers, serious this time. The word comes out jilted, as if it hasn’t been quite broken in, a pair of new shoes. It isn’t enough.

With the gentle press of your hands you lay him on his back, feeling your way down the length of his body, over muscles defined by years of working in the police force. They come to a rest on his belly and you climb over him, straddling his hips and pressing down against the front of his boxers. He laughs, then, just a little, just this side of breathless.

“Ask again.”

“Please.”

“ _Properly_.”

“Please let me fuck you.” But it’s not good enough – it’s too rigid, too stiff, little more than a mask to hide the knowledge that he’ll most likely fuck you in the end no matter what he says. He strokes up your arms, persuasive.

You don’t waver.

“Again.” You grind down against his hips and smile as he shudders. He asks again. It’s still not enough. “I can keep doing this all night,” you warn him. “You decide.”

He laughs; he thinks it’s a joke. That you’re just having a bit of fun. That soon he’ll be able to roll you over onto your back and make love you to all night like he usually does. _You’re wrong,_ you think, kissing him. But he doesn’t know that.

Taking his hands from your arms, you pin them above his head and continue the slow roll of your hips. He could overpower you easily, but he doesn’t. He just closes his eyes and loses himself in the sensation of your warm body pressed to his, the wash of your breath across his face.

“Please,” he murmurs a few minutes later. “Come on, just –,”

You shush him. “Ask nicely.”

“I already said please – !” His voice trips when you drag your hips just the right way, the muscles in his thighs fluttering. He’s starting to get worked up, equal parts horny and frustrated; you can see it in the way his pulse jumps in his neck. _Good._ _Even the strongest men have to yield sometime._

“And you can say it all you want, but it doesn’t mean anything.” A pause, low and electric. “I want you to beg, David.”

He looks at you like you’re crazy. _Him_ , beg? Madness. But he can see the resolve in your face and realises, however slowly, that you won’t budge.

You push your hips down and his expression crumples, brows drawn tight and lips parting just enough for you to see a flash of teeth. Push, pull, drag. You can feel him growing hard beneath you until his face is flushed with frustration and his hands begin to battle against your hold.

“Enough,” he snarls.

“ _Ask._ ”

He glares at you and grits his teeth.

“Please, let me –,” His words are interrupted by a moan that claws its way from his throat, but his whisper had been a little suppler, a little more forgiving. “Christ, just let me –,”

You’re gaining ground, slowly but surely. He throws his head back and hisses when you pull down his boxers, letting his cock free and pressing it between your clothed crotch and his hip. You grind down against him – not too hard – and release his hands, shoving them away when he makes a grab at you. You click your tongue and his eyes flash positively wild.

More, more, more. You’re nothing if not a woman of patience, and so you continue with your touches, eluding his grasp until he’s heaving and sweating, his cock aching. Dripping precum onto the sheets. Until his eyes lose their coolness, until his face folds like wet paper and he _snaps_ , as briskly and as sharply as a twig taken across the knee; you smile when it happens, swallowing down your own moans, noises that would give you away. Having a lover like Allen has taught you to withhold your own temptation until the right moment.

“David…” You murmur his name, taking his face into your hands and kissing the hollow of his cheek. He groans and turns his face to you, lips searching and finding nothing. You don’t kiss him. You hover just out of reach, close enough that your breath washes across his mouth, and through the darkness you see the flash of desperation behind his eyes. You don’t say anything else. You don’t need to.

“Please,” he chokes out. The word sounds entirely different, now. Drawn-out. It’s a confession rather than a bargain. “Please fuck me.”

 _Ah._ There it is. The simple change of verbs, the shift of subject and object, the castle swapped for the king. _Checkmate._ You drag your tongue across his lips and he moans, helpless.

It’s difficult to stop your own hands shaking as you clamber on top of him. He grabs at your thighs and you let him, this time, shivering as he grabs fistfuls of flesh, kneading at your hips, grabbing your ass. He ruts uselessly against your underwear, and when he fails to find the wet heat of your cunt he lets out a choked, stilted whine. It’s a sound you’ve never heard him make before. It shoots straight to your groin.

“Please, please, please,” he groans; it’s like he’s forgotten what the word means, repeating it over and over and over until it stops being a word and just becomes a sound. But it’s sweet to you: admission, submission, the giving over of himself to your touch. Something you _know_ he would not give lightly, nor easily – you’d had a hunch that he’d need a bit of pushing. Men like him always do.

You pull aside your underwear and hook his thumb into it; he holds the fabric against your thigh as you fumble between your legs, lining up his dick with your slick folds. The sensation of the head slipping through them almost makes you moan. _Almost._

You pause, glancing at him. He meets your eyes and bares his teeth at you, the tendons in his neck straining.

“Please,” he whispers, so quiet and so fractured that you almost don’t quite hear it. But it’s enough, God, it’s enough –

A pleased sigh rises from your lips as you slowly sink your weight down on his cock. It slides in easily, fitting so perfectly inside you, and he grinds his hips upwards as you grind down.

“Good?” you pant, bracing your hands on his chest and setting a rigorous pace; Allen looks like he might just ascend to another plain of existence from sheer pleasure. The hand not holding your underwear has fisted in the sheets next to his head, giving you a beautiful display of muscle and sinew in his arms and torso and belly. He’s a powerhouse of strength and patience, and yet you had knocked him down a peg or two.

“So good –,”

It doesn’t take long for either of you to come. He goes first, body tensing and straining beneath you, and you come soon afterwards as he thrusts lazily up into your clenching body. Sweat courses from your skin and from his; you collapse against him and spend a minute merely breathing.

And then he laughs, stroking your hair back from your sweaty neck. “That was… something.”

You grin at him. Through the darkness, now black and quite complete, you see him grin right back.


	3. Knife Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: blood, injury
> 
> idk i feel like my writing is already getting repetitive but yknow my thirst is too great so !! who cares

You’d mentioned it hesitantly, at first. You weren’t sure – you were _never_ sure about these things, about what would be _too far_ , about when you would cross that line. Allen was pretty opaque about his fantasies and even a desperate trawl through his browser history had revealed nothing. When you’d first met him he seemed… normal. Almost _boringly_ normal. Thankfully he’s also terribly handsome and has a decent personality (most of the time), which makes up for it.

But how do you tell someone something like that? How do you tell someone that you want them to take a knife to you? That you want them to drag it down the length of your spine, that you want them to _spill your blood_? Simple: you don’t tell them.

And yet you had. You’d told him, and all he’d done was blink at you a few times before nodding, seemingly unconcerned. You’d been more shocked by his lack of reaction, than anything. But he’s a cop, so he’s probably seen a whole lot of weird shit in his time.

Which is how you ended up here, hands bound behind your back with a length of zip-tie, alone and on your knees in the middle of Allen’s apartment. The lights are off and it’s dark, so dark. You can barely see a thing apart from Detroit’s glimmering skyline.

“David –,”

“Shh,” he tells you gently, melting out of the darkness like a shadow. “Stay still for me, little one.”

You love it when he calls you that.

Pulling and wriggling is a dumb fucking move when someone’s pressing a knife to your throat. Which, funnily enough, is exactly where you now find yourself, one of Allen’s hands pressed firmly against your belly, holding you in place. Your heart sets off at a gallop as he drags the point of his knife – a tactical blade he carries on him often at work – down your throat. It follows the path of your trachea, down to the hollow of your throat, before it catches against the neckline of your shirt. He tugs, pulling the material away from your skin, and from his position over your shoulder you know he can see right down the front of it.

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” he purrs. “It’d be a shame, wasting something so pretty, don’t you think?”

You nod helplessly. Words fail you. Heat is already tingling up your inner thighs as the hand at your belly tugs up your shirt, the cold press of the knife following soon afterwards. You lean your head back against his shoulder and close your eyes. He kisses your temple.

“Good girl. Stay very still.”

With a single jerk of his wrist he slices clean up the front of your shirt. Your breath catches in your throat and you can’t help the way your body trembles in response, especially not when the knife comes back to press between your breasts. He presses hard against your skin until you feel the first bite of pain. Lips part, breath escapes, and all of a sudden it no longer feels like your own.

Allen kisses your neck as he trails his knife down towards your navel. Up, down, up, lazy little strokes of the blade that are somehow even more promising than the pain had been; it would be easy for him to gut you like a fish. He _could_ , if he wanted to. The possibility – the _danger_ – bites hot between your legs. You shift your thighs together. Allen, of course, notices.

“Getting wet already?” he asks. His knife disappears only to touch your thigh, just inside your knee; his hand pushes your skirt up and the lip of his knife follows, scraping along your skin. “I didn’t think you’d get off on being held at knifepoint.”

But you do, you _are_ , your legs relaxing and spreading beneath Allen’s patient hands even though every single sense is screaming danger at you.

“Surprise,” you manage weakly, and Allen barely manages to bite back his laugh. Instead he chooses to prick your inner thigh with the tip of the knife, hands holding you steady as you jump.

“Hold still. It would be a pity if the knife slipped.”

It’s getting harder and harder to draw breath. Allen hooks his knife into the front of your skirt and tears it free until it’s dangling from your leg, ruined. The knife presses against the thin cotton of your underwear and your cunt clenches; it’s such a delicate place that a single slip of the knife could be disastrous. And yet despite knowing that, your clit throbs and the blade comes away wet.

Your underwear is the next to go. He gropes at your breasts, dragging the knife around your nipples until they rise to peaks, down around your upper thighs, skirting dangerously close to your cunt. Viscous fluids are already pooling beneath you.

“Do you want it?”

Breath gasping, shuddering. “Yes.”

The blade digs deep into your thigh and you choke on your own saliva as the skin breaks beneath it, the sting shooting up the whole length of your body.

“Do you really?”

“Yes! David, please –,”

He smiles against your neck and presses a reassuring kiss against your shoulder. Then the knife vanishes and you find yourself being pitched forwards onto your knees, the floor tilting as your torso hits the floor, face pressed against the carpet. Allen, kneeling behind you, takes your ass into his hands and kneads. Spreads. His eyes fix on your glistening wetness and he licks his lips, dick already straining at his fly. There’s a dark smear of blood against your inner thigh.

He fucks you like that, the angle allowing him to push in deep and _pound_ in long, aching thrusts. He doesn’t hurry. He spends his time enjoying the sight of you spread out and shivering beneath him; he presses his knife to the flesh of your back and drinks in the flutter of your cunt as he does. You writhe against the pain of it. Your mind has gone hazy; a blank fog.

“Still…” Allen catches his tongue between his teeth, ensnaring himself in a second of concentration. He presses and the blade cuts, drawing a line of blossoming red down your back, from shoulder to waist. It feels like the striking of a match, and with a body set aflame all you can do is cry out into the carpet and jerk your hips back against him. He smears his fingers across the little beads of blood, perfect as blown glass, spreading them messy down your spine.

“More,” you moan. The word is slurred. Your tongue is useless and swollen. All you know is that you need _more_.

And, oh, he gives you more – he watches you with senses sharpened, eyes roaming, hands feeling the stutter of your pulse to make sure he doesn’t push you too far. He doesn’t need to focus on fucking; you do that for him, your hips rocking with each nick of the blade, your insides clenching and rippling whenever pain blossoms. He gives you more and more and more until your back is smeared with blood and his fingers press hard into the wounds, making you howl in the most obscure kind of pleasure you’ve ever felt; he comes like that, listening to you wail and sob into the carpet, your body tight as a vice. You’ve already come three times by then, each orgasm clubbing your more heavily than the last.

Allen is gentle with you afterwards. He mops up the blood, cleans and dresses your wounds, then wraps you in a clean blanket and carries you to his bedroom. You lie there, together, warm and safe in his bed. He kisses your hair, telling you how incredible you were. How strong. And there’s wonder in his voice, true, genuine wonder.

“I didn’t think your pain tolerance would be so high,” he admits when you ask him about it. “To be honest, I was a bit surprised.”

“I’m sure there’s a lot about me that'll surprise you,” you say, smiling.

“Well.” He’s laughing, too. “I can think of worse things to do than be surprised by you.”


	4. Mirror Sex

It’s not as if you don’t like him. You _do_ – of course you do. You like him a lot. Too much, even. But you don’t say that; you don’t say anything. You two meet in the cold Detroit evening and head back to his place or yours for a night of losing yourselves in each other. A convenient escape – that’s how you think of it.

Sometimes you wonder what _he_ thinks of your arrangement. What he thinks of the no-strings and no-commitment. What he thinks when you refuse to stay the night, when he lingers on the side of your bed until you’re forced to tell him to leave. Thoughts like that open up a whole wormhole of possibilities, so you try not to dwell on it. If he doesn’t like it, you reason, then he’d stop.

The more you meet and the more time you spend with him in the close darkness of his bedroom, the more uncertain you become. Something in your heart begins to twist. Whenever you see him illuminated by the ugly glow of a streetlight – somehow still managing to look terribly handsome – your heart picks up pace. It’s not supposed to be like this; you use each other to get off. That’s it. That’s all you can ever be.

Tonight is no different. You wait outside a little Vietnamese restaurant a block or two from the DPD’s main office; he said he’d come straight from work. You wait for thirty minutes, glancing every so often at your watch, shrinking back into the shadows of the shopfront. Detroit’s streets have grown dangerous these past few weeks, what with rogue androids kidnapping children and stabbing their owners… ideally, you wouldn’t have to loiter. You don’t _want_ to. But the promise of Allen’s weight atop your body blots out all notions of danger, giving you bravery you didn’t know you had.

He arrives a little out of breath, jacket bunched up around his ears, his cheeks and nose pink with the cold. “Sorry I’m late,” he says. “Got caught up in reports. That android from homicide’s working way too efficiently.” Because he’s _told_ you about the android from homicide, he’s _complained_ to you about it – and you had listened, rapt with interest at the thought of a detective android, as though you were friends or (God forbid) _actual lovers_ rather than just fuckbuddies. Things like that have been happening more and more frequently, lately. Perhaps it ought to frighten you. You try not to think about it.

Your apartment is dark when you arrive. You flick on the lights, throwing your coat across the kitchen island and turning to see Allen standing rigid, hands by his sides, looking right at you.

“We need to talk.”

“Oh, no. No, we’re not having this talk.” Your voice shakes a little; you already know what he wants. You can see it in his eyes. “We _agreed_ –,”

“I love you,” he says simply. It’s the frankness of his tone that gets to you the most. He says it as it’s the surest truth in the world. The three words you’ve been dreading ever since you first met him.

(Maybe because you knew they’d come eventually.)

“You can’t,” you choke out, but it’s already too late. He’s got you like a bear in a trap, caught, bleeding out. _You can’t love me, David. You can’t._

He crosses the room impossibly slowly. You feel like a deer in the headlights, frozen and immoveable, your joints cemented to stillness. He crosses the room and you can feel his hands on your face; you don’t realise the tears until he’s kissing them away.

And you whisper – _you can’t you can’t you can’t_ – but he doesn’t listen – _I can I can I can –_

 _I do._ You grasp his wrists and press your face into the front of his shirt. It smells like him. You know that smell well by now. You crave this closeness whenever you’re apart. Love… that awful word. It opens like a chasm beneath you and swallows you whole.

Allen leads you to the bedroom and lays you out, unwrapping you like you’re God’s greatest gift as you lie there and weep because _you love him you love him you love him_. Words you promised you would never say because heartbreak is so tiring, _too_ tiring, and you cannot risk it again. But what more can you do but weep when your soul breaks free of all sense and reason?

His body presses hot and naked against your back; gripping you by the arms, he pulls you onto your knees and displays you in all your imperfect glory: the mirror on the back of your bedroom door flashes and returns that same image. You see it. You _stare_. You’ve never thought what you might look like in Allen’s arms… and you never in a thousand years expected it to look like this.

In that mirror you see a woman, distraught and with a body warped by pleasure, legs spread wide across Allen’s lap as he cradles you in his grip. His dark hair gleams in the moonlight filtering through your blinds, but you don’t notice it, not when your own skin gleams so brightly. His hands roam across your throat, your chest, you belly, your legs. All of you. Mapping out each coastline, each mountainous peak, each fall and curve of your landscape.

“I love you,” he murmurs, breathing your own name hot against your ear. You come apart, thread by thread, as he holds your chin and forces you to watch as it happens. That mirror stares back; you meet his eyes in your reflection and sob, so helpless, so hopeless. “Can’t you see? I love you, I loved you ever since I first met you, I –,” His voice short-circuits, failing. Teeth snap shut. You sob, again.

Because you love him too.

Your words don’t say it. Instead it is your body, reflected perfect and ethereal in the glow of the mirror, that says it for you. The way it twists under his hand, the way it bears the marks of his nails and his teeth so wonderfully. _I’m yours_ , wails your blood as it sings through your veins. His hands might as well sink right into your flesh and tear out your heart for all the anguish he causes you.

“David,” you whisper, hoarsely, lips catching against his chin. His arms hold you. Tight. Unfailing. A promise. _Please don’t let me go,_ you think. _Not ever, not ever._


	5. Sadomasochism

You’re a respectable sort of person. Sensible, even. Most people see you as perfectly normal – an upstanding citizen. You pay your taxes and work a normal job, have a steady boyfriend, et cetera. And, perhaps, on the surface you _are_ as normal as you appear to be.

But there’s always black water lurking somewhere in everyone. Yours just happens to be tucked neatly away, out of sight, where nobody will ever find it. Or, at least, you _thought_ it was.

You met him in a bar on the wrong side of town. It wasn’t a place you chose to frequent; better to remain unknown in these kinds of places, where the alcohol is unsavoury and the people even more so. You were there with your friend, who’d thought it would be fun to hit one of the BDSM clubs for shits and giggles.

He’d been leaning against the wall by the entrance, nursing a beer against his belly and appearing entirely uninterested in the whole affair. You’d caught his eye from across the room, and the moment his lips pressed into a slight smile electricity had crackled right down your spine and you’d wanted him more viscerally than you’d ever wanted anyone in your life. You pretended not to be interested, of course, as all respectable people do. You sipped your drink and talked to the others, but all the while your gaze kept slipping to the man beside the door.

“I’m not interested in anyone,” you’d called above the music when your friend asked if you’d seen anyone you liked. Not that you were single, of course, but that wasn’t important. Your friend didn’t care either way – she called him _stale_ and _pretty boring_. It was difficult to agree when she was right, after all.

The night wore on and you got drunker and drunker on sweet cocktails and maraschino cherries; your friend had vanished on the arm of some guy, leaving you standing dazed against the wall by the ladies’ bathrooms.

“You come here often?”

Your head lolled to the side and you smiled when you recognised him. “Well, if it isn’t my tall dark stranger. That was a terrible line, by the way.”

He smiled at you, all white teeth and crinkling eyes. Even more handsome up close, it seemed. “Yeah, well. It hasn’t worked yet.”

After you’d laughed he bought you a drink and you spent who knows how long talking at the bar. He smelled nice, like cologne and clean linen, and the more you watched him the heavier your body got. Desire… it sat leaden in your chest. The heat of the bar was making you sweat.

And then, since you were drunk and stupid and in the company of a very handsome man, you said the dumbest thing you could possibly come up with.

“Hurt me.”

He blinked, caught off-guard. Then he licked his lips and stepped closer. “I thought you’d never ask.”

In retrospect, you realise how stupid and how dangerous it was to go off with him like that. There was no negotiation, no safe word, nothing except the drowsy haze of alcohol and the smell of sex from the back rooms of the clubs. You ended up in one of those rooms, small and windowless and dark, with a strong hand around your throat and the other already shoved down the front of your jeans.

He didn’t ask for your name and you didn’t ask for his. Somehow he knew exactly what you needed and _gave_ it to you, and in return you gave him your submission. Willingly. In the stifling darkness of that room he hit you and you came; he pinched your flesh and strangled you and brought blood to the surface of your skin with sure, practiced hands, driving you deeper and deeper into that inferno of desire. You let him fuck your throat and smack your ass and twist your skin between his fingers till you _howled_ with the pain of it, high on the pleasure it brought. His hands were the ones to push you under, and you drowned. Metaphorically, of course, though after your fifth orgasm you would have been quite happy if he’d snapped your neck.

But he didn’t snap your neck, and by the time the club was about to close he held your sweaty body and soothed you as though you were a startled animal. You slept for fifteen hours afterwards.

Later, when you met him again by accident, you found out his name was Allen. Captain David Allen, with Detroit’s SWAT unit. You met in the street and, after a beat of silence, recognised each other at precisely the same moment. What do you say to someone in a situation like that? _Oh, hey! You’re the guy who slapped me and fucked me till I passed out!_

Definitely not.

Instead he’d shaken your hand and smiled, introducing himself as if you were just strangers on the street. It was, somehow, one of the sexiest things he’d ever done: treat you normally as though he hadn’t wrapped his hands around your throat or beat your thighs till they were blue. It made sense, of course, that he was a SWAT captain. The precision of his strikes hadn’t been lost on you, and the thought of him pointing that assault rifle at you turned you on far more than you’d ever care to admit.

You’d gone out to dinner a few times, unsure whether or not you wanted to _be_ anything. You drank expensive wine and returned to his place – each time, unfailingly – where you let him cuff you to the bedframe and fuck you until your vision shorted out. He found out about your boyfriend and he _laughed_ , damn him, saying that you can’t help what you need. You’d dumped your boyfriend two days later, finding yourself in Allen’s bed that very same night with blood on your lips and a fire in your belly. You’d never felt like this before – not for anybody.

Pain was never something you’d enjoyed; it was the act of being hurt that aroused you. The act of being taken advantage of, being vulnerable and exploited and _used_. Allen made you feel all those things in the most delicious, _succulent_ ways possible, but he never made you feel unsafe. It was a temper, a gentle kiss after each hit he inflicted. He pushed you to your limits but never broke them.

“I’d let you kill me,” you murmured against his cock once, some eighteen months after you moved in together. You’d zoned out into subspace and mouthed at his dick like it was the air you needed to breathe; he stroked his fingers through your hair and laughed, pushing himself into your throat until you gagged.

“No,” he said softly. “I wouldn’t want to waste you like that.”

Something about the way he said it – you didn’t know what, exactly – made you burn.

You craved it. You craved everything about him. Whenever he was apart from you, all you did was think of the moment you could be together again. You craved his hand on the back of your neck, on your knee, tight and possessive. You craved the way he practically tore the clothes from your body when you were alone, how his dominion over you made him so uncontrollably wild.

“You make me crazy,” he snarled as he fucked into you hard and fast, fingers digging into your thighs hard enough to bruise.

And all you did was laugh, saying, “Well, you’re just my kind of crazy.”


	6. Daddy Kink

He has you on your knees, his hand cupping your chin, the coarse weave of his uniform rasping against your cheek.

“You’ll be a good girl for me, won’t you?” he asks quietly, stroking lovingly across your lips. Oh, you’ll never get tired of him saying things like that.

“Yes.”

“Yes _what_?”

You lick your lips. “Yes, daddy.”

He smiles. It’s a devastating sort of smile, making your heart trip over itself from how upsettingly _attractive_ he is; there’s nothing soft about his face, all hard angles and sharp lines. But you love it. Immensely. He has a way of making you feel very small and very vulnerable all while being the most important thing in the universe. He strokes your cheek, praising. You lean into the palm of his hand.

You’d been waiting for him. He’d _made_ you wait for him, like this, on your knees. Naked, right in the middle of his living room, eyes on the front door. There was something strangely erotic about waiting for him to get home – the submission of it, perhaps, the way your skin rose and nipples pebbled at the thought of him opening the door and seeing you there. Smirking, running his tongue over his teeth.

“You’re such a good girl,” he murmurs as you nuzzle at the front of his pants. He hasn’t even changed out of his uniform, yet, but you don’t mind. You have a thing for him in uniform. His praise washes hot and slick over you, sweet and sticky as honey. You drink it up and he _knows_ how much you love it when he says things like that, when he strokes your hair and presses his thumb past you lips, pressing down against your tongue. You suck at it, meeting his gaze from beneath hooded eyes. He’s wearing a half-smile as he drags the wet pad of his thumb from your mouth and down your chin.

Sitting back on your heels, you bite down on your tongue as he undoes his belt and fly; when he feeds you his cock you _groan_ , taking it deep as you can until his hips stutter and his own groan strangles its way from deep in his chest. Hands in your hair, gripping, pulling until saliva drips from your chin.

“God, you’re good, you’re so good.” In a moment he’s on his knees in front of you, pressing his open mouth to your lips and pushing his tongue against your teeth. It’s less of a kiss and more of a hot press of teeth and tongue; you suck on his tongue and feel his warped, lustful grin.

“Daddy,” you breathe, hands clutching at his shirt as if you can climb all over him. “Daddy, I need you so badly –,”

“Shh, baby,” he murmurs, mouthing at your cheek and jaw, tongue pressing hot against your neck. “Soon, I promise. Soon.”

It’s filthy and you know it is. He knows it, too. It’s what you enjoy so much about it, after all – the wrongness of it all. It burns hot in your belly, makes you wet, makes your legs fall apart without resistance at the faintest touch of his hand. Allen spreads you out across the carpet, your fingers working open his shirt while his push between your legs, thick and callused. You grind down against his palm like a woman possessed.

“Tell me how badly you want daddy’s dick,” Allen breathes. His pupils are blown wide and dark, swimming pools of blackness you could quite happily lose yourself in. “Use your words, baby.” He thrusts his fingers deep within you, curling up behind your pubic bone. You shiver and whine as he touches against a hotspot of pleasure; the pressure against your cunt is exquisite. He knows it is. He knows your body better than you do, sometimes, and has learned just how to make you writhe and scream with little more than his tongue and fingers.

“I want you so much,” you sob. “I need your dick, daddy, please –,”

His uniform chafes against your skin as he presses you into the carpet with the weight of his body; he presses his face into your neck, huffing and breathing you in, and all you can do is cling to him and buck down against the fingers working furiously between your thighs. Disgusting wet noises rise from it. It only arouses you further.

“Where do you want it?” he pants in your ear. The heat of his breath makes you shiver.

“In my cunt,” you manage weakly, the mere thought of him pushing his thick cock into you making you light-headed. “I want you to fuck my pussy –,”

Something snaps in him, then. He bullies your thighs apart, pulling his dripping fingers free and pushing them into your mouth as he uses his other hand to line himself up at your entrance. “You ready, baby?”

Moaning around his fingers, you nod. Your muffled attempt at a plea brings a half-smile to his lips, pinched as he slowly fucks into you. A frown knits deep between his brows and his entire expression tenses at your tightness. He whispers a gentle _fuck_ as his fingers slide from your mouth and his hands come to brace on either side of your head.

“My good girl,” he moans as he fucks you slow and deep. You can feel his cock butting against your cervix, spreading a deep, pleasurable ache up your spine. “Waiting at home for me all day like this…”

You throw your arms around his neck and kiss him again, deeply, sucking on his tongue. “Anything for you, daddy.”

He fucks you against the floor until your back stings with carpet burn; you call him _daddy_ and he calls you _good girl, my girl_ over and over, pressing your heaving chest to the slick strip of skin beneath his open collar. He comes across your stomach and leans down to lick it off, crawling up your body to fuck your mouth with his tongue, smearing his own spend around inside it. You’re left an absolute mess on the carpet: fucked into a puddle, sapped of strength, shimmering like a mirage. Allen can’t help but grope his hands across your exposed skin.

“You’re gorgeous,” he mutters, dragging his tongue over a nipple. You laugh, albeit breathlessly.

“Take me to bed and we can go for round two, daddy,” you smile. He bares his teeth and, without any further preamble, scoops you up as if you weigh nothing and carries you down the hall.

“We’ve got all night, baby.”


	7. Aphrodisiacs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more of a sex pollen sort of thing ig  
> i didnt even proofread this so sorry in advance :')

It’d been a simple job. Or, at least, everyone had _thought_ it was – it was only when the air misted over with some kind of unidentified gas that they’d realised it actually wasn’t simple at all. It was a terrorist call to a warehouse just outside of the city; suspects had put up a bit of a fight but weren’t any match for a SWAT team.

You were prepared for a situation like that, especially when dealing with terrorism suspects. And yet somehow it had still gone wrong and you’d inhaled that sweet-smelling gas by the lungful, coughing and wheezing as you collapsed to your knees, only vaguely aware of someone nearby calling for a paramedic.

You didn’t die, of course. You blacked out for a few minutes, though, and when you came to you were in the back of an ambulance under the watchful eye of your captain. He’d taken off his helmet and discarded his rifle somewhere nearby, and now stood with his head bent towards a paramedic, listening intently to whatever they were telling him. Your head felt tender and sore, but apart from that, you were fine.

“We can’t find anything wrong with her,” the paramedic said as he gave you a final check-over. “Probably just a shock to the nervous system. Take a day off, get some rest, and you should be fine.” He said the last part to you, smiling, and you knew what he wasn’t saying. _Could’ve been so much worse. Thank God._

Allen wrapped up the raid with his usual precision. You headed back to the station in the SWAT van, bombarded by questions from your team about what the hell had happened – you said you had no idea, that apparently it was some kind of nerve agent that hadn’t ended up working. _Escaped death by the skin of your teeth_ , someone said, and everyone laughed because in this line of work you danced with death every time you were called out. It became a game of seeing who could avoid it the longest.

When you made to leave the station and head home to a much-needed shower and take-out dinner, however, Allen stopped you.

“I don’t want you driving,” he said sternly.

“I’ll call a cab.”

“And end up blacking out on the sidewalk? I don’t think so.” Allen took your phone from your hands and put it back in your pocket. “I’ll drive you home.”

“You don’t have to –,”

“Look,” he interrupted you with a sigh. “It’s my job as your captain to make sure you get home safely, ok?”

You considered saying no; your pride wanted you to, but you were so _tired_ and all you really wanted was to get home as quickly as possible. So you relented, rolling your eyes for a little dramatic effect, and nodded.

“Ok.”

Allen’s car was an old sedan, well-loved but in impressive condition. The interior smelled like cold metal and air freshener, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant – actually, it wasn’t unpleasant at all. You squeezed your hands between your thighs as the heater began to blast tepid air from its vents, the engine rattling from the cold. Neither of you spoke on the drive home, the silence broken only by the GPS and the soft rasp of Allen’s hands against the steering wheel. You liked watching him drive, you decided. He drove like he operated a gun: sure, steady, patient. He had handsome hands, too, with long fingers and well-groomed nails. Only when you realised you’d been staring did you glance away, but you knew the darkness hid you, and so you let your gaze slip back with a sense of guilty pleasure.

As Detroit’s inner-city skyscrapers phased into residential buildings, you felt something odd writhe in your belly. It was a slow, almost unnoticeable tingle that spread down your lower back and legs before creeping up towards your chest, warm and disconcerting, like the touch of stray fingers roaming your body. _Probably nothing_ , you thought, trying to shake it off. _I’m probably just tired._

Allen opened the door for you when you arrived. It was an oddly gentlemanly gesture of him, but one that you appreciated nonetheless, and you let him walk you right to your door while trying to mask the tremble in your legs. Your body was burning, suddenly, sensitive to the rub of your clothing and the touch of the air. Despite how desperately you tried to conceal it, Allen noticed. He always noticed.

“Are you all right?” he asked, and _oh_ but he looked so gorgeous in the light of the single bulb beside your apartment door; you stared dumbly at his face and imagined what it would look like between your legs.

“Fine,” you said. “I’m fine.”

But you weren’t fine. You knew that. _Allen_ knew that.

Your hands shook so violently as you tried to unlock your door that Allen, already watching with concern, had to take the keys from your hand and open it for your. The mere touch of his fingers had your breath tripping over itself, and you clenched your hand into a fist to try and satiate the burning.

A hand against your spine pushed you inside. It was all these little touches – as though he was _afraid_ to touch you, as though you would shatter like porcelain – that stoked and stoked the ever-growing wildfire. In the time it took you to walk from your door to your kitchen you lost the ability to breathe properly and your legs lost their strength. You leaned against the counter and closed your eyes, trying to will the overwhelming sensations down.

Vaguely, you heard Allen say your name. Once, twice. Your head was too heavy… you couldn’t raise it to look at him.

“I’ll call a paramedic –,”

 _That_ , at least, frightened you into action. “No!” you blurted, instinctively reaching out and grabbing at him; your hand grasped his jacket, eyes intent and pleading. You weren’t an idiot. You already knew what these feelings were hinting at. “Please, don’t… don’t. I…”

You _knew_ what that gas was. It hadn’t been a nerve agent at all. Your body flushed with shame, though Allen interpreted it as some physical reaction to the gas and took hold of your arms when you swayed in place; you beat his hands away from you, frightened by the tremor of pleasure that took hold at the touch. “Don’t – !”

“Take it easy,” Allen soothed. The sound of his voice was the only clear thing in the hazy recesses of your mind; your entire skull felt like it was suddenly full of thick, thick fog. You couldn’t think. You could only _feel_ , every fibre of your body growing overtly sensitive to the point where you began to shiver at the very touch of the air. Warmed butter. Honey. Sweet molasses dripping, melting. It was as if your flesh was melting from your bones into a puddle on the floor.  “Talk to me.”

But you couldn’t. What would you say? How the hell were you supposed to explain it to him? Maybe he was right, maybe you should let him call the paramedics and go to the ER –

“Oh.”

Shit. You were too late. He’d realised the situation as soon as his hand touched your knee and you _moaned_ , you honest-to-God moaned. You could die right there on your kitchen floor. How fucking humiliating.

“I –,” The words refused to come. Your throat felt thick with… with _something_ , something sticky and heavy and sweet. Your belly fluttered, your pulse jumped, skin already glistening with sweat. Allen – _Captain_ Allen – rarely lost his head in tense situations. But you saw the panic in his eyes, the uncertainness, his eyes restless and never able to rest on one spot. He didn’t know what to do. For once, he had _no clue how to proceed._

“Go,” you groaned. “Just… _go_. I’ll be… I’ll be fine.” You even tried to manage a smile, but if the stormy grimace that bloomed on his face was anything to go by, it wasn’t terribly encouraging.

Without a single word, Allen grabbed you and hauled you over his shoulder. The world tilted, the floor swimming and becoming the ceiling, everything a helter-skelter that made you want to vomit. But it was a sensation that centred your pulse right between your legs, and you became suddenly very aware of Allen’s strong hands on the backs of your thighs. The hell was he taking you…? The light of the kitchen faded into darkness and you quickly realised he was headed to your bedroom.

“Leave!” you moaned, both in pain and in arousal; it was lapping at you like an ever-rising floodwater. It was only a matter of time until you drowned, and until Allen stopped being _Allen_ and started being a means to release the tension. “Please, I’ll…! I’ll end up doing something stupid!”

Allen deposited you on your bed and glowered at you through the half-light. “Listen to me,” he said, crouching down so you were eye-level. His voice was very gentle. He knew you were scared and nervous and humiliated – it was a voice you’d heard him use with children, or hostages, or victims suffering shock. “I’m not leaving this room until I know you’re safe. Do you understand me? You’re one of my team, and it’s my job as your captain – as a decent fucking human being – to make sure you’re safe.”

He was making sense. Of course he was. For all his grumbling and bad moods and irritableness, David Allen was a _good_ man. His moral compass was dead-set. You knew this for a fact – it was one of the most well-known things in the SWAT unit, and one of the reasons Allen had become captain in the first place. Of all the people you knew, Allen was the one you could trust the most. He was the one you _did_ trust the most (apart from maybe your mom, but she was the _last_ person you wanted to see you like this).

“Let me help you.”

Those words shouldn’t have hit you like they did. Instead of being reassured by them you were hit with another wave of arousal, this time far stronger than the last. Your eyes fluttered shut and pooled with tears – not of distress, no, but of sheer and unadulterated desperation – and all your organs seemed to shrivel and bloom at once. Your body felt too small for everything it was trying to contain; you let your weight sink into your duvet and groaned.

“Help m-me out of these,” you whispered; your words came out jilted and clumsy. Ugly. But Allen didn’t mind, and he helped your fumbling fingers undo your shirt and your belt, helped you kick off your pants and pull off your socks. Your clothes were too much. You _felt_ too much, each rasp of every individual thread, and only when you were entirely naked did you finally find relief. The bedsheets were pleasantly cool and smooth, and you pressed your face against them.

The relief was short-lived. Just as soon as one ache disappeared another one came to take its place; this time it was a pain that was kindled in your abdomen, low in your pelvis, and as it grew and grew you squeezed your thighs together. They were slippery. You were already wet.

It was _emptiness_ , you realised. Heat rose steaming from your skin and you parted your trembling thighs to dip a hand between them. Sure enough, your fingers came away glistening, and you let out a quivering little cry of surprise. Not that you were particularly surprised, but… well. Your senses weren’t quite in order. Your body was screaming to be filled.

And Allen was there, watching you as you shook and shivered and cried from the overwhelming pleasure assaulting each of your senses; he was afraid to touch you and yet he held fast to your ankles, making sure you didn’t move too violently or throw yourself off the bed. His presence was hazy; you didn’t even notice it until he touched you. When he _did_ touch you, however, you let out the most incredibly sound, somewhere between a moan and a scream. His hand was hot as molten iron against your skin, but the burn was a _good_ one, as though he had applied his fingers directly to your clit.

“I can’t,” you whined, unsure where to put your hands or what to grab hold of; your fingers moved from your own flesh to the sheets to his wrists, the coarse, dark hair of his arms delightful under your fingers. You could hear his breath come quicker. “I can’t t-take this, _I can’t take it_ –,”

“Sh, now, take it easy.” One of his hands found your face and pushed the hair back from your forehead, by now shiny and sticky with sweat. “I’m right here.”

His voice made the emptiness in your cunt pound even harder. All your wants and desires and deepest, darkest lusts were pounding at the door, seeping through the cracks. You wanted those firm, gentle hands around your throat, on your breasts, between your legs. _In_ you. As if possessed by a conscious outside your own, you drew into his body and clung to him, breathing in the heady smell of his neck. He hadn’t showered since the raid at the warehouse and still stank of sweat. Usually you would be a little putt-off by it. Now, however, it only stoked the flames. Something about it appealed to the rawest parts of you.

“Please help me,” you sobbed into his shoulder, clambering onto his lap and straddling one of his thighs. The material of his trousers ground up against your pussy and you pressed your self down on it, rocking your hips without an inkling of the shame you may have felt if you hadn’t been off your head on a sex drug.

“I –,”

“ _Please._ ”

Allen paused, his hands on your bare back, and you heard him swallow before he pushed you down onto the bed again. Your vision swam as he hovered over you, the mattress sinking below his weight, and what surely must have been only a second passed as an eternity.

He kissed you.

Never in your life had a kiss tasted this good. You felt that kiss in every nook and cranny of your body, from your toes to the top of your scalp and the ends of your fingers; his tongue pressed into your mouth and you let it in willingly, ready to accept all of him. You would take whatever he had to give you.

When is hands pressed against your waist you wailed; it was too much, the sensation was _too much you couldn’t take it –_

“Breathe,” he murmured, voice right beside your ear. He continued to hold you steady, and you realised that you’d begun to claw at his clothes. “Breathe.”

There was something very solid and earthy about his voice. It anchored you. It was the one thing that remained constant in a world that seemed to be spinning – that, and his hands where they held you. His weight. _Him_.

“David,” you whispered, chest heaving. “I can’t… I can’t take it, I’ll _die_ … please, fuck me, _please_ – !” It was unbearable, this emptiness inside you; every cell in your body ached for touch, each sense clambering to load you with information whenever he touched you. “Please, I need you –,”

The urgency in your voice wrung out another groan from him, and Allen pressed you hard into the mattress as he kissed you again. And again. And again, until you could no longer breathe and lay there as useless as a dead fish. You trusted Allen – trusted him with your life. Perhaps, later, you would burn with shame at having asked him to fuck you, but at that moment the only thing you could think of was his cock sinking inside you, and that… stopped every single other thought in your head.

He tightened his hold on you and lavished kisses all over your body. He’d done this sort of thing before, obviously, and your belly shivered with jealousy at all the other people he’d slept with. And yet he made you feel like you were the only person that mattered, imbuing such care and concern in his touch that your eyes fluttered shut and you could do nothing but surrender yourself to his touches.

“I’ve got you,” he promised as he pressed your legs apart; you vaguely heard the jingle of his belt and the rush of his pants as he wrestled them down his thighs. You could no longer speak, but your insistent pulling at his clothes must’ve gotten the message across well enough, because Allen quickly disposed of his clothing onto the floor, right next to yours. Relief flooded through you when you felt the hot press of his skin… _everywhere._ He was no longer a man but an entity, nowhere and everywhere at once.

There was no time for foreplay. You clenched your thighs around his hips and he was already so _hard_ ; your could see the line of his cock against your thigh even despite your hazy vision, and your entire body clenched up in anticipation.

“D-don’t be slow, don’t, you have to go fast, like you hate me –,”

Allen stroked gently up your belly. “No. We do this properly or not at all.”

Ever the gentleman. You’d never wanted to slap a man more than you did right then, but as Allen held himself between your legs and slowly began to press his fingers into your entrance, you forgot all your anger. Your body fell apart, bones trembling and shuddering inside your flesh, blood leaping and dancing like waves in a storm. Sweat coursed from you. Your brain felt little more than a mass of television static.

He worked you open carefully, one hand anchored against your belly to keep you down as you thrashed like a wild dog; your begging chipped at his resolve little by little – _David please I need you I’ll die fuck me **please I can’t handle it anymore** – _ and eventually he grabbed your thigh, fingers still slippery, and fucked into you in one long, deep, stroke.

You _shrieked._

Allen, startled by the sound, reflexively slapped his hand across your mouth to muffle it, and the force and suddenness made your eyes roll back in your head. Your whole body trembled on his cock, clenching and releasing and shivering, and part of him expected you to start frothing at the mouth. But you didn’t. Instead, when he made no move to fuck you, _you_ began to thrust yourself against his hips.

“Fuck,” he choked. “Fuck – !”

Your body tensed, rippling, and something inside him snapped.

Allen held you down with a hand against your sternum, throwing one of your legs over his shoulder and fucking into you _hard_. You screamed again, not a single care for what your neighbours must think, and were quite sure you _would_ die. Oh, but what a blissful death it would make.

A sweat broke out across Allen’s brow as he rocked his entire body against your, his thrusts deep and powerful and overwhelming – you _were_ crying now, face streaked with tears and mouth crying out such horrific obscenities that your own mother would wash your mouth out with soap if she’d heard; in fact, she’d probably have killed you on the spot. But God, you couldn’t help that Allen’s cock was thick and slick and just the right length, that he knew just what angles to hit to make you see stars.

Little by little an animal cracked the shell; spurred on by your body and your voice, Allen kicked into some sort of trance, his eyes wild and hands tight, his entire body drawn taut as a coiled spring. Something in him had changed; he fucked you like he was releasing every single pent-up sexual frustration he’d ever had, and yet the whole time he said nothing. He just _looked_ at you, watching as you completely broke apart beneath him. Whatever that change was, you loved it.

He fucked you once, twice, three times. You lost count after that – not that you’d had the capacity to count in the first place – but you do remember your lucidity returning to you by the time dawn broke. Allen was bent over your body, your legs over his shoulders and your thighs against your chest, lungs burning, cunt aching. His breaths were laboured; the entire room spun around you and as you felt yet another thunderclap of an orgasm rattle you right to the core, you leaned over the side of the bed and vomited.

Allen, who had come alongside you and was looking every bit as exhausted as you felt, stared at you in utter disbelief for a moment. Only when you dry heaved again did he kick into action, diving across the bed to hold back your hair and wipe at your mouth with the bedsheet. You blinked rapidly, wincing from the odd sensation between your legs – an unignorable throb of desire tempered by pain, as though all your organs had been bruised. Your clit felt raw. Too sensitive. You had to hold your legs apart.

You blacked out for a few minutes after that. Perhaps it was the exhaustion, or the mental strain, or merely the after-effects of the gas – whatever it was, it knocked you out cold. When you next came to, the bedside lamp was on, curtains drawn, and your head was in Allen’s lap with a cold compress across your forehead.

“Ouch,” you groaned, gingerly moving your limbs and feeling the ache. The last time you’d felt like this was after a week of high-intensity training drills during your SWAT training.

“Don’t move so quickly,” he said. His voice was… oddly soothing. You let your head drop back into his lap, cushioned by a pillow, and sighed. Humiliation began its slow descent from your gut to your face, bringing with it a furious flush.

“I’m fired. Allen, fire me. Please. I’m handing in my badge and fleeing town.”

He _laughed_. The last thing you expected from him was laughter. Warily, you cracked open an eye to look up at him and found his usually-severe face broken open by a grin, stormclouds parted by the sun. “No, you’re not,” he replied. “You’re taking a few days off to recover before you go right back on the field where you belong.”

“And face _you_? After what I did to you? I think the fuck not. Captain.” You added the last part hesitantly, unsure just what the relationship between you and him _was_ now.

But Allen looked more surprised than anything. “What you did to… oh, Christ. No. I _wanted_ to, I – I was the one who should’ve just called the medics. Your consent was compromised –,”

“Don’t give me that bullshit!” You vaulted up despite your aching muscles and turned to face him, jabbing a finger against his chest. Which was still naked. And very handsome, just like the rest of him. _Shit._ “I asked you to… you know. Do _that_. I begged you and now I need to die, because I will never _ever_ live this down.”

Allen leaned towards you until his face was little more than a hair’s breadth from yours. “Did you hate it that much?”

You blinked. “I… I didn’t hate it at all. I’ve…” You flushed, but you couldn’t look away from him. “I’ve never had sex like that before in my life.”

“You said some pretty wild things,” he told you. His voice had pitched lower, rougher. _Oh, God_ , you thought. _What dumb shit did I do this time…?_ “Things about… _fantasies_. That you’ve had for a while. About me.”

Your flush deepened and became unbearably hot. You thought of your living room window and how fast you could run to it before Allen could catch you and stop you flinging yourself to your death. Chances weren’t good. Could shame cause death? You fucking hoped so. “I…”

But he smiled, then, gentle and assuring. You felt the pressure of his knuckles against your knee. “Look, I’m not going to tell anyone about this, and I’m happy to never speak of it again if that’s what you want. But –,” Here he paused, and his hesitation made your heart pick up pace, hammering against your ribs. “If you… if you want to try again _without_ aphrodesiacs…”

“Are you _propositioning_ me, captain?” Your smile was shy but wicked. Allen’s cheeks pinkened and you smiled even wider.

“I –,”

“Not yet,” you murmured, hand rising to press against his chest, just over his heart. The muscle flexed under your fingers and you nearly swooned. “I don’t think my body can handle any more right now.”

“Not now, you dumbass,” he chuckled, bringing his own hand up to press over yours. It was an oddly intimate gesture, but… you liked it. A lot. “Later. Another time. Maybe after dinner.”

 _He’s asking me out on a date,_ you realised. _Oh. Well. Shit._

“I’d like that, I think.” You smiled at him, and he smiled back.

“Feel like a bath?”

The mere thought of a hot bath made you moan. Allen laughed.

“I would _love_ one. But, uh… only if you join me.”

His chuckle was low and intimate; leaning forwards those last few inches, Allen pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Absolutely.”


	8. Sex Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW SO BASICALLY the reason i ghosted on this fic was because ao3 would glitch out whenever i tried to update it so i. physically couldn't. HOWEVER after talking 2 their support (after like 5 days) i got it fixed and here we are!!! so i'm sorry about that and i have a big fat chapter 2 make up for it. amen

Working at the DPD was always your dream – when you were a kid you always dreamed of working in law enforcement, driven by a pipe dream of justice that somehow managed to stick with you until you were a teenager. When the reality of the world settled around you, however, that hope was warped into anger that kept you motivated just as your childhood dream had. Detroit was corrupt, and you wanted to play a part in exacting justice where it was due.

That’s how you found yourself in the DPD’s SWAT department, the newest addition to the unit. You captain – Captain Allen – was hard to please. You rarely saw him smile and he always seemed to be frowning, or thinking about something terribly serious. He scared you, in a strange sort of way – a way that made your skin tingle whenever you met his eyes. You put it down to intimidation. After all, as the captain of the whole SWAT unit, he _had_ to be intimidating.

Working in the DPD had always been your dream, but sometimes you needed a little extra every now and again. It’s not like you struggled to pay the bills: you lived alone in a simple apartment and had no extravagant tastes. It was just nice to have reassurance in the bank, and you were trying to save up for a bigger place in a better part of town. That was how you’d started your career as a camgirl.

It was frightening, at first, displaying yourself to strangers on the internet. Part of you wanted to just be an escort – there was security in flesh and blood, and on the internet nobody truly knew who was watching. But you kept camming because that was what intrigued you. The anonymity. Besides, if your side work came out, you’d be fired for sure. There was no way you’d risk that. You kept your face out of frame, and thanks to your taut body and rather freakish interests ( _not too freaky,_ you assured yourself, _just freaky enough to be interesting_ ), you quickly built yourself a following.

Usually, during your shows, you’d be bombarded by comments like _fuck, that’s so good, you’re so fucking sexy like that_ or other wayward compliments, sometimes commands (which you never followed unless it was accompanied by a sizeable tip), _ride it faster, show us your asshole, play with your tits._ You had regulars, too, who you could tell by the way they typed.

Except one.

There was one regular who never missed a show, who often tipped a solid chunk at the end, but who never said a thing. Never made a request, not even when you asked them explicitly if there was anything they wanted to see. They had never, not once, typed a single thing. You knew nothing at all about them except their username: _cadet_. Cadet? You pictured a young man, perhaps a woman, too shy to say anything; the name _cadet_ brought to mind a certain extent of naïveté, so you put it down to nerves, but every time they appeared online your heart would jump.

Lately, though, you’d been fucking yourself silly on your toys thinking of them. Of what they thought of you, watching you exposing yourself and fucking your pussy into a pliant mess for cash. Were they disgusted? Turned on? The mystery of it all cast you into a delightful, aroused haze. Your shows became more and more brazen. Louder. Your tips came in bigger than ever, but you only cared about cadet. Before you began, you always made sure they were there.

Whenever you shopped for outfits for your shows you wondered what cadet would like. You’d finger the lingerie on their hangers and wonder _would they like red? Or green? White, maybe?_ But you could never be sure – they never said a damn thing.

Around August – after that hostage situation with the little girl and the deviant android – things began to mount up. Your unit was in demand at least three times a week and was overtasked to absolute capacity; you had to cancel a lot of shows, and watched as your subscriber count began to drop. It was frustrating, but what could you do? Your real job came first. These deviants… you lost sleep over them, following the news almost every minute, wondering if today’s the day you don’t make it home. Riots in the street, an explosion of murders… it was awful.

Allen was hit the hardest by it all, though. He was harsher with you – all of you – and you could see as he was drawn tighter and tighter with stress, scraped thin, patience wearing. He’d stay late and arrive early, and sometimes you wondered if he ever got home at all.

Finally there came a weekend where you could put on a show. You apologised profusely, though you were excited to get back into camming again after such a stressful time at the DPD; mostly, however, you were excited to have cadet watch you again.

Except this time they did not appear.

It was hard to contain your disappointment; you hoped that they might turn up during the stream, but they never did. You had to fake your orgasm, in the end, and after ending the stream you lay there on your back staring at the ceiling, honest to God worried.

 _Don’t be stupid,_ you reprimanded yourself. _It’s not like you’re special or anything._

But then you had an idea. Sitting up, you turned your cam on again. This time you recorded a video, though not for an audience. This was a private one, fizzing with the pleasure and arousal your stream had lacked – you were recorded for just _one_ person. The only person that mattered, apparently. You’d never done a private show before. Never even considered it. But this… you had to. You _had_ to.

After coming to a shuddering orgasm and coming all over your favourite toy, you zipped up the video file and attached it to a private message to cadet.

 

_Sorry you missed the stream. I made something for you. Hope you like it ;)_

You hit send before you could backtrack. That night you fell asleep with your face burning with embarrassment. What if cadet was some greasy old man? A pervert? Oh, God, this was a _terrible_ idea.

The next morning, however, you woke to an unread message. Heart thundering in your throat, you opened it. Cadet had replied.

 

_If you live near Detroit, I’d be interested in meeting you._

The clipped tone of their message surprised you. It was… nothing like the sloppy messages you got from others. Trying to will your hands not to shake, you replied immediately:

 

_I live in Detroit. I’d like to meet you, too. Date/time/location?_

He didn’t reply before you left for work. Their silence left you antsy and checking your phone every two minutes, even though it hadn’t pinged. Allen, who had noticed your distractedness, turned on you with a fierce frown.

“If I see you on your phone one more time I’ll put it in the coffee machine,” he barked. Your already frayed nerves shuddered and you jumped, shoving your phone back into your pocket.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, but he’d already stalked off to his office. He seemed… very high-strung. Oddly so. Maybe it was personal troubles? But it wasn’t your place to pry, so you shut out the thoughts and tried to focus on your work.

Your phone – _finally_ – vibrated just before you left for the day.

 

_Times Sq on Thursday at 6 ok?_

Thursday… Thursday would work. You caught your lower lip between your teeth and quickly keyed in your reply – _That’s fine. See you then :)_

Don’t be excited. Don’t be excited. You tried to temper your nerves with thoughts of getting abducted and murdered – _you’re a sex worker, isn’t that likely_?! You had no idea, of course, but you hoped fear would settle you a bit. It didn’t.

Waiting for Thursday to roll around was torturous. It was only a few days and yet it felt like an eternity – Allen was getting more and more stressed, and the whole team was feeling it. All you could hope for was that you weren’t called in on Thursday evening. _Pathetic,_ you thought to yourself, chiding. _Like a schoolgirl with a crush._ But the prospect of meeting cadet blew any negative thoughts right out of the water. Curiosity ate away at you so badly that you barely slept a wink on Wednesday night.

And then it was Thursday. Your excitement melted into dread and anxiety, and every regret and doubt you’d pushed aside came flooding back. _Oh, God. I’m going to die. I’m going to be murdered. They’re going to be a creep and I’ll be found at the bottom of the river cut into tiny little pieces._

Anxiety mounted as the day wore on; you couldn’t concentrate on your work and didn’t notice the concerned glances from your co-workers, suffering Allen chewing your ear off after you misfiled your reports. That mistake meant you had to work later into the afternoon, and by the time five-thirty rolled around you were tripping over your feet to leave.

“You _trying_ to break your neck?” Allen demanded as you very nearly fell down the stairs, saved only by him grabbing the back of your collar and yanking you back. “Why are you in such a rush?”

“I’m… I’ve gotta be somewhere.”

Allen released you and fixed you with his cutting, clear eyes. You felt oddly exposed like that, as if you were standing there naked. Shaking off his gaze, you excused yourself hurriedly and practically _ran_ from the building.

Ten-to. You didn’t want to turn up in your uniform, but what other choice did you have? The sky was already beginning to darken as you waited for your cab.

You arrived at ten past six. It was only then you realised that you had no idea who to look for – _God, I’m such a fucking idiot, why am I like this_ – !

Your rambling thoughts, however, were cut off as you ran directly into someone. Stumbling back, you blinked rapidly up at the face turned towards you, brow pulled low in a stormy scowl.

“Captain!” you exclaimed, honestly shocked to see Allen standing there against the side of the building. You hadn’t even noticed him. “I… sorry.”

Allen looked at you for a moment. Scrutinising. “I’m starting to think you’re purposefully making my life difficult,” he said eventually, causing a blush to rise up your neck.

“I’m not,” you bit back. “I’m here to meet someone.”

He snorted through his nose and said nothing.

You stormed away from him, waiting a good distance away beneath a streetlamp; standing there like that made you feel like an _actual_ sex worker, like in the movies, where a woman loitered about under a streetlamp until she snagged a customer for the night. It almost made you feel cheap – it would have, if you’d been dressed the part. Instead you were trussed up in your DPD blues, hair a mess, no make-up. It made you worried. What if cadet found you ugly? What if they were disappointed?

Half-past six came and went and there was still no sign of cadet. Your heart began to sink. Maybe… maybe it was a prank. Hurt prickled at the back of your throat and you began to fidget, looking across the street at Allen, who was also still waiting, hands in his pockets and his eyes following the cars that passed between you. You put your own hands in your pockets and felt the cold edge of your phone. Taking it out, you deliberated sending a message.

Turns out you didn’t need to.

 

_Are you late?_

It almost read like a command – your organs shivered all at once and, relief crashing through you, you fumbled out a reply.

 

_I’ve been here for twenty minutes. Where are you?_

Waiting was torture, but the reply was almost immediate.

 

_By the entrance. Still in uniform, though. Didn’t have time to change._

You frowned and looked up, over towards the entrance of the station. There were clusters of passers-by going in and out of the station; peak hour was only just slowing down, and even when you squinted, you couldn’t see anybody. So you darted back across the street, phone in your hand, peering around you and wondering what face could be that of your secret admirer. You stood by the entrance for a few minutes, frowning.

 

 _What uniform?_ you type in quickly.

 

_Police. Don’t be scared of it, though._

Police? What on earth…? You looked around wildly, searching for another DPD uniform and finding none. Well, apart from –

Oh no. _No_. There was no way –

Horrified, you looked up from your phone, right at Allen. He had his phone in his hand and was looking down at it, brow furrowed. Icy coldness rose in your throat. Oh, God.

You approached him on shaky legs. It still seemed impossible. It had to be some mistake, surely…? Some coincidence? And yet…

“What do you want?” he asked, voice sharp enough to startle you. His frown deepened at the expression on your face (you had no idea what that must’ve been, but probably fucking hilarious).

“Captain,” you whispered, somehow choking on your own words. “I’m –,”

You couldn’t. God, you couldn’t say it. _I’m that camgirl you’re supposed to be meeting. It’s me. Surprise!_ Instead you fumbled with your phone, struggling with your suddenly numb fingers.

 

_It’s me._

The second you sent it, his phone vibrated in his hand. He glanced down at it, then at you, then at _your_ phone, then back at his.

And then he realised.

He said nothing. He just stared at you with those icy eyes of his as you practically trembled in your boots, nervous and embarrassed and shocked beyond belief.

After a few seconds of staring at you in disbelief, he reached up and grabbed your jaw before pressing his lips to yours. Something of a moan slipped past your lips at the contact and your hands went to his jacket, gripping it as if it was the only solid thing in the world.

As Detroit’s commuters drifted in and out of the station, you kissed Captain Allen with every anxious nerve in your body. It was like you’d never kissed anyone in your life before, as if all your desperations were distilled into that moment: you dragged him closer to you and his hand moved to cup the back of your neck, his lips full and hot and intense against yours. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think; all you could do was _be._

“Cadet,” you whispered when you broke apart; Allen’s lips were flushed pink. Then he kissed you again, just as deep and as hungry as before. “I never thought –,”

“And I never thought,” he interrupted you, his voice deep and gravelly, hand tightening against the back of your neck. “That one of my team would be showing herself off online for some extra cash.”

His voice was enough to make you weak at the knees. Your hands crawled up his chest and over his neck, suddenly unbearably desperate to see what had been hidden by his blues and SWAT uniform. His other hand found your waist and he pulled you tight against his own body, hidden in the deepening shadow of the building, away from prying eyes. You let out a gentle _mmh_ , licking your lips, quite suddenly not so afraid.

“You were the one who watched me,” you breathed. “Every time, you watched me from behind the safety of your screen. Did you know? Did you know it was me?”

A pause. “No,” he admitted. “I didn’t know.”

It was stupid to stick around and talk about it on the street; you both knew it. The hand on the back of your neck kneaded the flesh, tight, possessive. Allen’s eyes didn’t leave you for a moment.

“Despite this… _surprise_ ,” he growled. “I still fully intend on fucking you to within an inch of your life.” You couldn’t help it. You moaned just as if you’d been punched in the gut and winded. To hear such filth coming from your _boss_ was… really fucking sexy. Taking you by your elbow, he led you back to his car. The silence between you was tense, but… not in a bad way. There was promise in it.

“Is this what you were so keyed up about?” he asked on the way to his place. You stared down at the backs of your hands as they flashed with each passing light.

“Well, I… yeah. Yeah, it was.” Then you paused as you connected the dots for _him_ , too. “Wait, you… were you stressed out about this too?”

He didn’t reply and you knew you were right.

You arrived at his place twenty minutes later; your clothes had become far too stifling and you ached for him to take you apart piece by piece before putting you back together again. Your heart pounded in your throat so violently you wondered if he could hear it.

The door swung shut behind you and he turned, taking your face in his hands and kissing you hard. You shoved at his jacket, wrestling it down his arms until it hit the floor. Your own jacket soon followed, your hands diving beneath his shirt and feeling the hard muscles of his abs. He yanked his shirt over his head and you can finally _see_ him, eyes and hands greedily drinking in his body as he kissed your neck. He tugged at your own shirt, and together you left a trail of clothes from the door to the sofa.

“I always looked for you,” you told him breathlessly as he groped at your waist and held you tightly against his body. “Whenever I streamed, I… I always thought of you. You never said anything –,” You wanted to ask him _why_. You didn’t need to.

“You already got enough vile comments,” he replied, his own breath coming rapid. He looked at you for a moment, then, eyes searching your face. “I figured you didn’t need any more.”

You were stunned. “That’s _it_?” you exclaimed. “You… oh, that’s…” You barely contained a laugh and Allen turned his gaze away, a little embarrassed. You took hold of his face and forced his eyes back to yours. A moment of stillness, of sincerity. “I would’ve done whatever you wanted. All I ever wished for was for you to say something.”

Allen licked his lips. “You sent that video. I… after I was stuck on overtime and missed your stream.” He paused briefly, contemplating his words. “Was that…?”

“It was just for you,” you told him. “I didn’t come once during the stream because you weren’t there and I _couldn’t_ , for some reason. Only when I filmed that video for you. Did you, uh… _did_ you like it?”

Allen groaned. “I came in the first three minutes.”

You gasped as his mouth pressed against yours, tongue meeting your own. You imagined him sitting at his computer fisting his cock at the video you’d sent him, his body tensed and his face screwed up, spilling into his hand with the desperation of a high school boy.

“I don’t do things like that. I don’t… I don’t meet people, either. You’re just… you’re special.”

He had the nerve to laugh. It was a gentle chuckle, a puff of breath against your cheek. His next kiss was soft.

“Show me,” he whispered. “ _Only_ me.”

You drew back from him, blood singing through your veins. He sat on one of the armchairs by the windows as you backed across the room until your calves hit the sofa. Slowly you lowered yourself onto it, drawing the rest of your clothes off painfully slowly. Allen sat back, content just watching. Finally you could see the man you’d been wondering after all this time: those same heavy brows and full lips, that same straight nose and those same crystal-cut eyes you had grown so used to seeing across the bullpen. This was just or him. You were his. At least for the night.

Standing naked before your boss was one thing; standing naked in front of cadet was another. It just so happened that they were the same person, shame and desire meshing into a confusing cocktail of hard-hitting arousal that coursed through you like a drug. Allen’s hand sat high on his thigh, and your eyes were drawn to the seam of his fly, button already open. You drew in a shaky breath.

“You never made any requests,” you said. “Now you can, if you like. I want you to.” You almost begged him to make those vile comments he seemed so opposed to, but you didn’t, in the end. Time for that would come later.

He was quiet, thinking. Eyes raking over your body, drinking in each turn and each rise of flesh.

“Spread your legs.”

Arousal thick in the back of your throat, you sat back and parted your knees, the cool air washing between your legs and making your pussy clench. His eyes fixed on it and you _blushed_ , thighs quivering with the urge to shut your legs. But you were a camgirl, you reminded yourself. There was no room for modesty.

“Touch yourself.”

The first touch of your fingers to your cunt is magical. You hadn’t even realised how wet you’d gotten, and all you’d done was _think_ about him fucking you – your chest tightened as you circled your fingers around your clit, dipping between your folds, teasing at your entrance. Allen’s eyes on you felt… pervasive. _Perverted_ , but not in the way you imagined.

He’d begun to palm at his cock through his pants. Your eyes flickered between his hand and his eyes, which never once moved from you. His impassiveness just made you wetter.

“Fuck yourself on your fingers,” he said quietly, his voice quickly approaching a growl. His jaw was beginning to tic, a nervous habit you recognised from when you were out on the field; it was a giveaway of stress, or of mounting tension. The sight of it imbued you with new confidence, and you sank slowly down on two of your fingers, sighing heavily through your nose at the sensation. Using your fingers like that was never something that really got you off, but now that Allen was watching you spread yourself open, it felt like the hottest thing in the world. You stayed like that for a while, fucking yourself with your fingers until your pussy was stretched comfortably around them and you were ready to melt back into the sofa.

Then he undid his fly and took his cock into his hand; it was just as perfect as you imagined it to be. Big and delightfully thick, riddled with ridges and veins. You couldn’t help but moan at the sight of it.

“Get over here and put that pretty mouth on my dick,” he snarled. You almost tripped over your own feet in your haste. Collapsing on your knees between his legs, you let him feed you his cock, eyelids fluttering at the headiness of it against your tongue. Heavy. Hot. It’d been way too long since you sucked anyone off, and the knowledge that this was your _boss_ – your captain, the one who gave you orders, the one you looked to on the field – had your pussy dripping onto the floor. Your thighs melted apart and whatever inhibitions you had left vanished completely as he ground his hips up against your face, fucking your mouth with slow, sure strokes. He was using you like a toy, dragging your head up and down his cock until saliva dripped from your lips and pooled in his lap, slicking up his cock and allowing it to push down into your throat. Your vision blurred with tears but _God you loved it –_

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered when he finally pulled you off his dick; you coughed a few times and grinned up at him, licking the spit from your lips and revelling in how disgusting you must have looked. Seeing the flare of arousal in his face was well worth it. “God, what I wouldn’t give to just have you like this for me all the time –,”

A high, warbling moan clawed its way from your chest at that particular thought. Being just for your captain to use… it made your brain hazy.

“Yes, captain,” you breathed. He dragged you into his lap by your hair and kissed you deeply, licking his own precum from your teeth and tongue.

“You’re going to ride me,” he told you slowly, eyes intense. “You’re going to come all over my cock and then you’re never going to do another stream again, because I’m a selfish man and I want you all to myself.” He kissed you again, messy and unfocussed, and you slipped your arms around his neck and kissed him right back.

“Yes,” you said again, because _yes_ was the only word you could think of. _Yes, yes, I’ll be yours, only yours, for as long as you’ll have me._

Allen gripped your thighs as you straddled his laps, fingers roaming appreciatively over the flesh. He pressed his thumb over your lower belly, above where your uterus was, and the pressure made your breath flutter. “I remember seeing this,” he rumbled. “I love your legs the most, I think. Your thighs are so strong, such a pretty colour.” He pinched your skin between his fingers and you yelped in surprise; he bit down on his grin. “Marks so gorgeously, too.” From your legs he ran his hands up over your hips and your belly, along your sides, the dip and swell of your waist. He pressed his lips between your breasts.

Allen watched as you sank down on his cock. His thumb pressed above your clit, not quite giving you the touch you needed. Just teasing it. He was just as thick as you imagined him to be, but not too big; his dick fit snugly inside you and hit all the best places, filling you until you were sure you couldn’t take any more. It was a slow, intimate thing – he leaned his head against your chest as you rocked your hips in his lap, his hands grabbing your ass and your waist to hold you closer against him. He’d kicked off his pants and now it was just you and him, naked skin on naked skin, raw as the day you were born.

“It’s ironic,” he panted as you rose off his cock and dropped back down. Christ, the stretch was incredible, the way the angle hit right against your most sensitive places. “I always… always wondered what it would be like…” His powerful hips flexed upwards, chasing your tight, wet heat.

“To fuck me?” you slurred. How flattering. “My camgirl, or… _me_ me?”

Allen finally met your eyes. “You. My officer, the shy one, the best shot in my entire unit. Before… before the camming, I wondered. But this is… this is…” His breathe couldn’t keep up with his words. He swallowed thickly and pressed his tongue to your throat. “This is so much better.”

His confession made you weak at the knees. He’d thought about this before? Your cunt rippled around him and he groaned, nails cutting into your skin and making you hiss. Your shyness evapourated completely and you leaned back, bracing your hands on his knees and working your whole body up and down his dick, putting on the best and most outrageous show you possibly could. Head thrown back, raw noises torn from your throat each time his cock punched up into you, the whole nine yards.

Allen rubbed his fingers across your clit as you came, watching as you writhed and bucked in his lap. He came not long afterwards with his fingers tight on your thighs and his panting mouth pressed to your chest, clinging to you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. Siezed by your new sense of braveness, you led him from the living room to his bedroom, clambering into his bed and spreading your legs for him all over again. You spent the whole night in a fever – part of you wondered if it was a dream. But as the watery dawn light spilled through the blinds, you knew it wasn’t, and as Captain Allen pulled your exhausted body against his, all you could do was revel in your bliss.

“Still can’t believe it’s you,” you mumbled with a little laugh. He kissed your face: your cheeks, your lips, your forehead.

“I want you to be mine,” he replied. You almost swooned. “Just mine. Ever since the moment I saw you I wanted you.”

“Isn’t that insubordination?”

Allen scowled briefly. “I don’t care what it is.”

You kissed him. Gently, slowly; here, in the warm half-light, you could finally admit that you wanted him just as much as he wanted you. “I have an idea.”

“Mh?”

“Next time I stream… you can walk in on me and fuck me in front of everybody. Show them that I’m yours.”

You felt a shiver walk along his spine. “Yeah. I think we can do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: trying 2 come up with a non-cheesy user for allen gave me a headache n i ended up writing det_ca (as in detroit_captain allen bc i'm a loser apparently) and i thought huh!!! that looks like a word!!! and the rest, as they say, is history
> 
> (it still sounds lame but yknow what can u do)


	9. Lingerie

 

You’d waited for this day for weeks.

Almost a month ago to the day you had walked into one of Detroit’s lingerie boutiques with an anxious smile and frazzled nerves. Lingerie had always been a particular treat you’d never really allowed yourself to indulge in; the last time you tried it had made you so nervous that it’d ruined the mood completely. That was years ago, though. You’re a grown woman, now, with tits and an ass and a waist befitting this sort of… attire. Still, walking into a lingerie shop still made you nervous, even despite the bright smile of the girl behind the counter.

“Do you need any help?” she asked after you’d walked around for a little while gazing at the array of brightly-coloured frills. “You look a bit lost.”

You glanced at her and, seeing the frank genuineness of her expression, grimaced. “Yeah. I’m… looking for something to surprise my partner with.” You flushed a little at the thought. “Something I can wear under clothes…?”

As soon as you said surprise the girl got a mischievous little glint to her eye; she went to the rack and wrinkled her nose, studying the bras and panties and garters with a trained eye. “Something understated?”

“Yes, but… also outrageous.”

She laughed. “I think I have just the thing.”

* * *

 He was still there, sitting in his office, lights off save for the lamp over his desk. Everyone else had already left, and you should’ve left with them. But you didn’t. Because your day wasn’t quite over just yet.

“Don’t pull an all-nighter,” you said gently as you placed a cup of coffee down on the coaster by his terminal. Allen was prone to working through nights, especially lately, even if he knew it wasn’t good for him. He glanced up at you, eyes bloodshot from staring at his screen for so long.

“The hell are you still here for?” he grumbled, but there was no malice in his voice. He rubbed a hand through his hair, then across his eyelids. “It’s late.”

He appreciated the coffee, though, downing it in one long drink. You watched his throat bob as he swallowed, leaning you hip against his desk and folding your arms. It had been an admin day for the SWAT unit, everyone stuck to their desks and uninterrupted by callouts. “I thought you could use a nightcap.”

Allen laughed at that. “Unless there was whiskey in that coffee I don’t think that qualifies.”

You pushed away from the desk and took hold of the back of his chair, rolling it away from his desk and turning it to face you. You frowned, making your expression as displeased as you could, rewarded with the sight of concern rising in Allen’s own face.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. You said nothing. Instead you popped open the top button of your blouse, swallowing a smirk as his eyes widened and he looked from your hand to your face and back again. You popped the second button and his eyes wandered to the window, checking to see if you’d get caught.

“I got you something,” you told him as you popped the third button, finally revealing a peek of the black lace beneath. “I thought you’d notice before now, but…”

His hands clenched the arms of his chair as he watched you slowly unbutton your top. He swallowed when you revealed the sheer lace bra you wore – beneath which he could clearly see the skin of your breasts and your nipples – and a peek of the suspender belt about your waist. Eventually you had to take his hand and bring it up to your mouth, kissing his palm and rucking up your skirt so you could stand over his lap.

“Don’t you want to see the rest of it?”

Allen’s eyes flickered up to yours, to your slight smile, then to your breasts. His fingers played along the waistband of your skirt before slipping round to your back and bringing down the zipper. He groaned softly when he saw the lacy suspender belt and panties that appeared to be more of a cluster of ribbons than anything.

“You wandered around the office all day in this?” he asked, his voice a little hoarser than it had been a minute ago. “For anyone to see, huh?”

You smirked. “Nobody would dare. They know you’d tear them apart.” You think back to the time you’d come into the DPD wearing a choker of hickeys; how everyone knew who’d done it but never dared to say a word about it. Even Reed had kept his lip zipped, which was something. Allen worked your skirt down your legs and pulled off your blouse, dropping them to the carpet beside his desk. His hands ghosted up your thighs and grabbed your ass, leaning in until he could press his lips to your navel.

“You bought this for me?”

“I figured you needed a… uh. Pick-me-up of sorts.”

“Well, something is certainly picking up.” You would’ve laughed if he hadn’t chosen that moment to kick your legs out from under you, standing and sending his chair rolling across the floor. You squealed as he hoisted you up into his arms, shoving all the papers and clutter on his desk to the side so he could haul you up onto it. Allen stepped between your legs and took your jaw into his hand, kissing you urgently, and you wrapped your legs around his waist to pull him closer. You loved fucking on his desk – you’d only done it a handful of times before, but it was possibly your favourite place for it. “God, you look good…”

You knew you looked good. You’d made sure of it; headed to the ladies’ to touch up your make-up and make sure your hair was still looking nice. Even a man like Captain Allen could appreciate extravagance every once in a while.

“You can tell me that,” you breathed, mussing your hand through his hair. “Or you can show me.”

Allen, his mouth smeared with lipstick, grinned. He reached down between you and pressed the heel of his palm over your panties.

“Y’know, anyone could have decided to bend me over and fuck me,” you teased. “It would’ve been easy in these.”

If there was one thing you knew about Allen, it was that he was possessive. Usually possessive men irritated you, but for some reason he was neither as insidious nor as violent about it as others were. He made you feel owned and free all at once. You knew just how to push his buttons.

“Did you hope someone would try?” he growled against your mouth, taking your lower lip between his teeth and tugging at it. Then he chuckled. “You just want to make me jealous.”

“You don’t know that,” you bit back. “Maybe I would. Maybe I’d make you watch as your whole team took turns with me.”

You felt the hot press of his cock through his pants; he was hard already, rutting against your cunt and groaning against your lips. His hands gripped your waist so tightly you could feel bruises forming, and you licked at his lips until he kissed you again.

“Fuck,” he grunted, pulling your panties to the side with one hand and fumbling with his fly with the other. “You’re an insufferable woman –,” His voice broke off as he pushed himself into you; you were already wet enough. You’d been wet all day thinking about Allen seeing you in this get-up, of how riled up he’d get. Your head tipped back in delight as he bottomed out.

The desk rocked against the floor; Allen’s terminal flickered and went to sleep as he lay you out over his desk and dragged himself in and out of your body. He could see you better like that: he could see how your breasts swayed in the lacy embrace of your bra, nipples sensitive against the press of material and his hands. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you and you loved it, melting beneath the icy blue of his eyes and the intensity of his gaze. Every ounce of stress and frustration poured from his body as he fucked you into the desk; at one point he flipped you over onto your front, leaving you to grasp at the edge of the desk as he slammed his cock into you from behind. You tried not to be too loud, difficult as it was – the last thing you needed was for someone to catch you getting reamed over your boss’s desk by your boss. Probably wouldn’t look too good on your resume (or on his).

You put on a show. It was fun, bending your body this way and that to give him the best view of your outfit, and if the appreciative glide of his hands over your body was anything to go by, he enjoyed it just as much as you did.

He came all across the black lace and ribbons of your panties, soiling the pristine fabric as you came apart under his probing fingers. “Jesus,” he murmured, leaning over you, hands braced against the desk. “You’re really something else, you know that?”

Despite your exhaustion, you smiled. “Your turn to wear the lingerie next time.”

Allen burst out laughing; seeing him smile after so long being stressed made your heart do flips in your chest. “Right,” he said, kissing you. “Not likely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one day i'll write foreplay. today is not that day.


	10. Hair-Pulling

“Did you get a haircut?”

“Yes, I did.”

“It’s nice.”

Captain Allen looks at you from across the kitchen table of his apartment, tilting his head owlishly to the side, nursing a cup of coffee in his hands. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter in his pyjamas, his hair mussed, chin dusted with day-old stubble. He still looks sleepy. Warm. You want to go to him and wrap yourself up in his arms, to snuggle into his chest. Even though you’re only standing across the room from him, you miss him.

Allen has never been free with his compliments. Showing verbal appreciation is difficult for him, but he tries, he really does. He catches you and smiles, a little embarrassed, turning his face away.

You reach up to touch the ends of your hair. You’d gotten it cut yesterday, a few hours before you’d headed to his apartment. You have a drawer of things here, now; you have a toothbrush that lives in the jar on his bathroom sink, right next to his. He likes making breakfast for you and you like giving him expensive coffee beans as a treat sometimes. It’s one of the ways you celebrate one of his rare days off.

His eyes are on you again. On your hair. He’s thoughtful, mug half-raised to his lips but not quite there. And then he says, “You have beautiful hair, by the way.”

You smile. Flush a little. Usually you aren’t swayed much by compliments, but when it comes from _Allen_ … it’s different. You shut off the stovetop and go over to him, fingers tugging at his shirt until he puts down his coffee mug and pulls you into his arms.

“You mean that?”

“I do.” He smiles down at you and lets a hand slip up the back of your neck into your hair. His fingers feel lovely against your scalp, making you sigh and lean your head back into his touch.

“That feels nice…” you hum. Allen kisses your jaw and strokes his hand up through your hair, giving it a gentle tug and smiling as you bite your lip. “David, you literally only took your dick out of me an hour ago…”

Allen laughs again and lifts you onto the counter; he’s so strong from his job that he can lift you as though you weigh nothing. You push his coffee safely out of the way and don’t complain at all when he kisses you, winding your arms around his neck and nuzzling your nose against his cheek. His hand, still anchored in your hair, gives another tug. Your lips are pulled from his and you make some sort of noise, though _what_ sort of noise it is you can’t quite be sure.

“Sensitive?” he asks breathlessly, and you nod, bringing your lips back together with a hand on his jaw. Christ, he’s so rugged in the mornings… handsome and roughed around the edges. “It’d help if you weren’t so fucking sexy…”

“Even with morning breath?”

You grin. “Even with morning breath.”

He tugs on your hair again and this time you’re _sure_ it’s a moan that slips from your lips. You rub your calves against the backs of his thighs, whining. “David…”

“You have a hair-pulling kink, hm?”

Flushing, you avert your eyes and try not to look caught-out. You fail. “No…”

This time he tugs sharply, dragging your head back until he can kiss your throat; his hand is fisted against your skull, a pleasant ache spreading our over your skull and sending a ripple of pleasure through your body. “Don’t lie to me.”

That’s his _captain voice_. It makes you tingle whenever you hear it. And he _knows_ it, the bastard.

Coffee forgotten and cold, Allen twists his hand tighter and pulls again and again as he lavishes your throat with kisses; soon you’re rocking your hips against his, already craving the hot press of his cock even though he’d fucked you not an hour ago. Allen has an odd talent of being able to make you feel like a horny teenager all over again.

“Maybe just a little one,” you relent as his fingers creep up your thigh and duck beneath the hem of your pyjama shorts.

You remember back to when you’d let your sister convince you to get a head massage; you’d left the parlour warm and tingling and a very pleasant brand of uncomfortable. Only later, when one of your exes had yanked at your hair during sex, did you realise how sensitive your scalp was. An erogenous zone, even, together with your ears and the back of your neck. You’ve never really told Allen about it – you never thought it important enough. But now, in his sun-warmed kitchen with his fingers in your hair, you feel like an absolute idiot for holding out this long. _Especially_ when his fingers dip beneath your waistband.

You rut together on the kitchen counter, Allen sucking a few more tingling hickeys into the side of your neck and you falling apart like wet paper; his fingers slip inside you, curling up to stroke against your g-spot, and when you angle your pelvis just the right way his fingertips press _perfectly_ , and your clit throbs, swelling with blood. It’s not quite enough to bring you to climax, but it’s still so fucking _good_.

“Breakfast’ll go cold,” you say, words mushed against his neck. You’re slurring and there’s no real force behind your voice. Allen draws back from you, then, pulling his hand out of your pants and sucking you juices from his fingers.

“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbles through his kiss. “I have something else I’d rather eat, anyway.”

And, without any ado, he hoists you up and carries you back to bed.


	11. Breeding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn't like any of the prompts for day 11 so i decided to pick one not on the list!! i read a post aeons ago abt allen having a breeding kink and mmmmmmm thats the good shit right there i tell ya

You can feel his breath against your neck. Warm, smelling of dollar-store mints and coffee. His hands are at your waist, fingers tugging your shirt from where it’s tucked into your trousers.

“David,” you hiss, but you don’t push him away. He presses his mouth to the nape of your neck, just below your hairline, where he knows you like it best. “We’re at _work_.”

He ignores you. You lean against the desk – not even _your_ desk, just the closest one to the filing cabinets where Allen had found you – and feel him nudge a knee between your legs. The cool air of the bullpen hits your waist as he slips his hands beneath your shirt, sliding his palm up your abdomen and to your chest.

This isn’t the sort of thing for the office – you could both lose your jobs, which would be disastrous considering what a big part of your lives they are. You both live and breathe crime. And yet… standing here in the half-darkness of an empty office with your lover’s hands groping at your chest and his thigh between your legs, it’s really, _really_ hard to be sensible. It’s hard to think at all, actually. Allen bites softly against your lateral and you sigh at the sensation. _Fucker._ You reach behind you, then, fisting your hand in his hair and dragging his lips from your skin.

“We’ll get caught.” Shit, your voice is breathless already; Allen hears it and grins. His cheeks dimple a little, the sharp line of his jaw catching the light from the bright street outside, the city already lighting up in preparation for the nighttime. Allen’s hands press even more intently beneath you clothes and he grinds his leg up until it’s rubbing right at the apex of your thighs, and you pitch forwards a little, gasping before you can swallow the sound. “We’ll… David…”

“Not if we’re quiet.” Always the diplomat. Allen’s words are muffled against your throat as he works at your belt, pulling open your pants and slipping his hand down the front of them with practiced ease, as though he’s done this many times before. Which he has. But that’s beside the point. You bite down hard on your lip as you feel his fingers press and feel blindly around between your legs, hissing when they finally hit their mark and sink deep inside you.

It’s quick and rushed but some of the best sex _is_ , and Allen’s propensity for fucking in almost-dangerous places is enough to get you wet in two minutes flat. That, and his talented fingerwork; you’d known of his deft hands on the field months before you even met him, but you had no idea they’d be so talented in the bedroom too.

“Captain,” you gasp as he slips his other hand back under your shirt, his strong, callused fingers kneading your flesh. You feel him laugh against your neck; he’s so good like this, still dressed in his uniform when you’re both fatigued from the day, stress coiled tight at the base of your spine. You push your hips back against his with a sigh. It’s a pleasant thrum deep in your abdomen, as though he has reached right under your skin, past muscle and bone, and is plucking your arteries with very careful fingers. Stroking up each vertebra, along each nerve, until you can feel the hum and buzz beneath your skin. You press back into his hands, against his body, swallowing a smile as he breathes heavily into the back of your neck. He inhales the smell of your hair, your perfume.

You feel him, hot and achingly hard, against your upper thigh. You’re already wet enough for him to slip up between your folds and sink, sink, sink until he’s seated deeply inside you.

“David…” His name drops from your lips like a weight, falling down to the desk between your braced hands. “God, David –,”

He loves it when you say his name. He _especially_ loves it when you say it while his cock’s buried inside you. He admitted that to you, once, and even now you still remember the delightful little blush that had risen to his cheeks as he did.

You reach back and grab him by his hair, craning your neck to kiss him and lick at his lips. “You’re gonna have to pull out…”

His hips still. Stutter. Fingers tighten. Then he fucks into you a little harder than before, his strong hands bending you over the desk until the cool plastic presses to your cheek. You can feel him even deeper this way, each stroke of his dick against your insides, each tough of it against your womb. You shiver.

“No.”

You’re strong, but he’s stronger. He keeps a hand anchored in the middle of your back to prevent you from rising – not that you _try_ , seeing as he’s currently fucking your legs to jelly.

“David –,”

Your words are interrupted by a low, bottom-of-the-chest kind of laugh. “You think I wouldn’t notice?” Your heart pounds in your ears in perfect tandem to the motion of his thrusts. “Every time I fuck you somewhere we could get caught you come like a fucking geyser.” This time he laughs properly, tainted only slightly with a groan of his own. “I’m aware, little one, that you want to be seen.”

 _Fuck_ , you think. Not that you can think very well at all at the moment, of course. Even that is proving difficult. “That’s not –,”

“I won’t pull out.” His voice is right beside your ear now, hot and humid, and his tongue finds the whorl of cartilage and traces it until you squirm beneath the firm press of his body. You can’t breathe, can barely think – “No, I’m going to come very deep inside you. Maybe… maybe I’ll knock you up, huh?” His thrusts are quickening, now, meeting your hips as you grind them back into the curve of his hips. “Give you a nice, fat belly so everyone knows you’re mine. You want that?”

Drool slurring your words, all you can do is gurgle, “ _Yes_ –,”

You feel the pinch of his teeth against the nape of your neck; feel them widen and bite down, tensing at the pain and the hazy images of the fantasy he’d laid out.

You mumble something unintelligible. Allen fists his hand in your hair and pulls your face away from the desk, licking up the column of your throat.

“What was that?” he asks, words broken by rapid breaths. He’s close. You are, too.

“Breed me,” you whisper, hands finding his shirt and wrenching him closer against your back. “Fuck me full, God, just – !”

And he does, oh, he _does_ – he holds your hip in one hand and your hair in the other, bending your body until you’re sure it’ll snap in two. He comes in you like that, as you shudder and sob with pleasure on his cock, pressing in as deep as he can. You feel the heat of his spend; the fullness of it, the viscous way it runs down your thighs and into the crooks of your knees. There’s so _much_ of it. And then Allen gets to his knees behind you and licks up those very same trails, right from your calves to your cunt, before he presses his tongue into you. You press your head against your arms and try your best not to start crying at the utter overwhelming pleasure of it. Your legs shake. Your juices sluice down his chin and his throat and when he pulls you around to kiss him you can taste yourself on his tongue.

“You know,” he pants when you eventually break apart. “It’s times like these I’m glad you’re on the pill. I honest to God don’t think I could’ve pulled out.”

You’re both leaning against the desk, distrustful of your own legs to hold your weight. For now, it’s enough to just bask in the post-climax limbo, a place where you can be weightless and without feeling.

“I know,” you say. “I don’t think I would’ve wanted you to.”

The two of you share a smile and a rather sticky and odd-tasting kiss before you begin the painstaking task of cleaning up and heading home to a hot bath and a nice, soft bed.


	12. Anal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uuhhh i'm finishing up my degree in the next few weeks so if i miss a couple days that's why. just lettin u kno
> 
> cw: mentions of menstruation

“David. David, I’m horny.”

“Well, that’s your own fault. You shouldn’t have gotten worked up when you knew I couldn’t fuck you.”

You glare at him from across the living room, and when he doesn’t look up from his book, you storm across and deposit yourself directly into his lap.

“Fuck me,” you say. “I promise it won’t hurt.”

Allen shuts his book and tosses it to the side. “And that,” he replies, rubbing his hands up and down your thighs. “Is exactly what you said last time.”

It was. The _last_ time you’d convinced Allen to fuck you just after your period had finished you’d been curled up in bed for six hours afterwards complaining about how sore your cervix was.

“I could use my mouth,” he offers, voice dropping low in hope of enticing you. “Or my fingers.” They’re good offers – _wonderful_ offers, actually – but you already know you won’t be satisfied unless you get properly fucked. You slide your hands over his shoulders and down his chest, up over his neck and into his hair.

“Or you could try fucking me somewhere else.”

A pause passes between you. For a moment Allen frowns, unsure what you mean – until he _gets it_ , and his brow smooths with understanding. “You want to try…?”

You nod, then smile a cheeky little smile and kiss the corner of his mouth. “We haven’t had sex in… what, a week? Don’t you want a nice warm, wet hole to fuck, David?”

Allen tries to disguise his groan with a chuckle. “That’s what your mouth is for, my love.”

“My ass can’t bite your dick.”

“You… all right. Okay, fine, but if you end up like you did last time then you’ll get no sympathy from me.”

Laughing, you rise from his lap. “You’re cruel.”

He winks at you.

You’ve only done this kind of thing – _anal_ , you think, _why’s it such an ugly word?_ – a few times before, and not ever since you met Allen. It took too much effort and preparation. Usually after fooling around for a little your pussy was wet enough for him to spit on his dick and slide into you easily enough. You didn’t need to flush yourself out and you didn’t need to spend ages working yourself open.

But today is different. You’re still hazy with hormones and you’re quite convinced that if you don’t get his dick inside you within the next few hours _you will die_. It’s unbearable and has been all day – you’d tried to work through it on your own, but it didn’t work. It never worked. And Allen – well, he’d never really seemed concerned with fucking your ass before. Sure, he’d pressed his fingers to it and sometimes hooked his thumb into your ass as he fucked you, but that’s about it. He _loves_ your ass – wearing yoga pants around him is always a sure-fire way to get his hands on you, evidently – but you still aren’t sure if he’s ever thought about actually fucking it.

Doesn’t matter.

Half an hour later has you spread out on your bed, the sheets cool and comfortable; you’re squeaky clean in and out, fresh from the shower, your whole body pulsing with arousal just as it has been since the second you woke up that morning. Allen stands behind you, fingers slowly slipping his belt from his jeans; you watch him over your shoulder as he undresses, revealing his gorgeous body far too slowly for your liking. Your cunt throbs with neglect.

“You’re gonna kill me one of these days,” he says as he crawls to join you on the bed. “‘Captain of Detroit’s finest SWAT unit killed by his girlfriend’s insatiable sexual appetite’.”

You laugh. “That’s a cracking headline.” His hand strokes along your spine and you arch your back, backside rising from the bed. “Though if you’re so exhausted of me then I’m sure I can figure something out for myself –,”

Whatever else you were going to say is broken off as he smacks your thigh hard. “I don’t think so. You can’t take me down that easy.”

You bite down on your lip as his hands come to rub against the place he’d just slapped, the sting spreading warm along your skin. He runs his fingers over your ass, appreciating, making you writhe a little when he parts the flesh.

“You sure about this?”

“Mhm,” you hum, pleased at the feeling of his fingers. “Just take it slow, okay?”

He does. He presses a slick finger inside you, working it to and fro, listening and watching for any sign of discomfort. You give none, and he adds a second finger, twisting and curling them inside you. He puts in a third finger, and you moan, raising your hips off the bed.

“Feel good?” he asks, sounding a little curious; you raise your head from the sheets and look over your shoulder, lips graced with a lazy, pleased smile. He smiles back briefly, then glances down to where your ass is flushed and wet, stretched around his fingers. The musle has softened, worked open with Allen’s unending patience, soft and pliant. He adds his pinky finger and you gasp as his knuckles spread you open even further.

“Oh, God,” you moan. Your pussy is dripping already despite its neglect. “I can’t take your whole damn fist, Dave –,”

Allen chuckles, then goes silent. “You won’t,” he says eventually, though his tone has changed a little. “Not today, anyway.”

Something deep in you lurches.

“You can fuck me, now,” you whisper, gathering the sheets between your fingers and your teeth; Allen draws his fingers out of you, letting the ring of muscle relax and stretch. And then you feel it – the press of his cock against your hole.

“Ready?”

Words fail. You nod.

When Allen pushed into you the entire world seems to fall on its head. Blood rushes in your ears and your spine prickles with discomfort; you bite down on it, though, relaxing as best you can and pushing back against him. In a few careful thrusts he’s pressed flush against you, head hanging so his nose touches your spine.

“How’s it feel, cap?” you slur, head hazy, cunt throbbing. You feel almost nauseous by how full you are – having your ass filled like this always feels so different to when it’s your pussy.

“It’s…” Allen takes a breath, deep and rugged. “It feels… good.” You’ve known him long enough to know what that means. _It’s good. It’s… unlike anything._ He remains very still.

“You can move,” you whisper eventually as your body adapts to his size. You _need_ him to move, or else you’ll go mad.

“I… can’t.”

“What?”

“I’ll…” He pauses, stutters, swallows. Presses a hand to your back and straightens his spine. “Give me a minute.”

“David!”

He presses down harder against your spine, angling your hips so he can pull out and push back in, hissing through his teeth. You let out a delighted little half-gasp, dragging your hips back and forwards on his cock.

“Go as hard as you want,” you tell him.

“It won’t hurt?”

“Not… not now you almost put your whole fuckin’ hand in me…”

And, oh, he fucks you. _Hard._ As though something had possessed Allen’s typically firm-but-gentle spirit, he takes hold of your hips and let his powerful thighs drive him forwards, thrust after thrust. The room fills with the obscene sounds of wet flesh against flesh, sluicing fluids, and your moans. The bedframe creaks as he fucks you hard against the mattress, and you come once, twice, three times before he finally delivers one last pounding thrust, coming over the flushed curve of your backside. Your clit burns from where your fingers had worked furiously over it.

Allen sinks down to the bed beside you. For a while the only sounds are your breaths and the distant rush of Detroit’s traffic. You gaze at him; he’s staring at the ceiling, his cheeks flushed pink and glistening with sweat.

“Told you it’d be good,” you murmured, your tongue still thick and crooked. Using whatever strength you have left, you drag yourself across the sheets and lay your head on his chest. His heartbeat canters along beneath your ear, heavy and satisfied.

Allen grins at you and strokes the hair back from your face.


	13. Distant/Distracted Sex

You left him. You keep reminding yourself of this, but it never seems to help. _You_ left _him_. It had been _your_ choice. You’d been the one to walk away from what you had, because you were both too busy and it just wasn’t working.

But now, without him, your life is empty. You sit in your empty apartment and watch television in your free time, or stroll along the streets of Detroit feeling incomparably alone. It’s miserable and you hate it. But _you_ left _him_. This is your own doing. This is your own fault.

Your friends notice how down you are – they know you and Allen broke up and it’s easy enough to connect those dots. So they convince you to come out to go bar crawling with them in the hopes that you might just forget yourself for an evening. Against your better judgement, you agree.

The night is cold and bitter and you aren’t dressed in nearly enough clothing to stifle it; _it’ll be fun,_ they promised you as you lay on your bed and let one of your friends strap heels to your feet. _Get yourself a guy, let him fuck the everloving shit out of you. You’ll be a new woman come tomorrow!_ You envied their optimism.

Now, though, the concrete seemed much harder and the city seemed much greyer than you’d thought it would; even the glowing lights of the bar were watery and thin. The shrieking laughter of your friends was distant. Faint. Only the weight of your glass felt real. And then he sidles up to you: you blink at him, surprised, before realising that you’d been mistaken.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, motioning to the bartender for a drink.

“You just… I thought you were someone I knew.” _Same harsh face, same lips, same pushed-back hair._ But he was different, now that you looked closer; his eyes were a different colour and his jaw was rounder, his hair cooler. _Stop looking for him_ , you chide yourself, and let him buy you your next drink.

Perhaps you shouldn’t have gone with him. No – you _definitely_ shouldn’t have gone with him. But the pressure from your friends and your misery grew too much to bear, and so you’d laughed and flirted, and had followed him out to his car. And now you’re here, in his flat, with his hands on the zipper of your dress. It feels wrong, like you’re… cheating. You have to remind yourself that you aren’t, because you’re not with Allen anymore.

As he undresses you, you wonder what Allen is doing. Is he out on the town as well? No, probably not… he was never one for clubs or bars. Maybe he’s having take-out in front of the television? You always loved nights where you’d watch a shitty pulp-horror over a box of pizza. You want to be there with him, in your pyjamas with his head in your lap.

“Okay?”

The stranger’s voice drags you back to the presence. He’s paused, and is looking at you with one eyebrow raised enough to crinkle his forehead. You nod and press a smile that feels as superficial as an android chassis. “Yeah, you’re good. Sorry. Zoned out for a second there.”

As he leads you to his bed you think of Allen’s dreadful bedhead, remember smoothing it down with your hands and laughing; you remember lying with him deep into the night, soothed from your nightmares by the warm heaviness of his body, of his arms. Your own bed has been so cold, lately. It feels too big. Too empty. Some of the best nights had been when you’d made a blanket fort and lay there kissing each other for hours and hours. Your stranger lays you down and looks at you.

“You’re gorgeous,” he mutters as he mouths at your waist, his hands on your thighs, and you feel vaguely sick. You don’t reply, but it doesn’t matter. He’s not listening.

You press your face into the pillow and squeeze your eyes shut, desperately trying to enjoy yourself as your stranger settles himself between your legs. But his fingers are cold and unfamiliar, and they’re skinnier than Allen’s, and smoother. When you open your eyes you see the bright, excited face of a young man, and your heart aches. He doesn’t have those grey hairs at his temple, nor those creases about his nose or the corners of his eyes; this man is full of energy and it tires you.

Part of you wonders if he’s drugged you. But, no – you know he hasn’t. Your body feels numb not with drugs but with sorrow, and you lie there unable to even _pretend_ that you’re having a good time. When your stranger next looks up and sees your face, the colour drains from his face and he draws back a little, uncertain.

“Are you okay?”

You blink. Grimace. Rub a hand over your eyes.

“I’m fine.”

So he takes your word for it, and your mind wanders backwards into the past when Allen’s firm hands had been wrapped firmly about your waist, or your neck, or in your hair. Only by pretending that your past is you present can you find any pleasure at all; eventually you rock your body, eyes shut, all your energy focussed on convincing yourself that it was Allen fucking you instead.

When you come you commit a cardinal sin.

You call his name.

 _David_.

It’s a lazy kind of climax that never climbs very high and leaves you more deflated than satisfied, like the final letting of tepid air from a balloon. Your stranger’s face is flushed with humiliation, and you honest-to-God feel bad, because he doesn’t deserve your baggage.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly. “I –,”

“It’s okay,” he replies. “I get it.”

Does he? Doesn’t matter. Whatever. You gather your clothes and dress; he doesn’t ask you to stay. He already knows you don’t want to be there. You leave the apartment quiet as a shadow and find yourself stranded in the night.

You make to call a taxi, but for some reason your finger picks out another number; its digits are so familiar it’s like looking at an old photograph. Tongue numb, you dial, and bring the phone to your ear.

It’s one o’clock in the morning. He probably won’t even be awake.

But he is, and at the sound of his sleep-slurred voice you choke down on a sob.

“I need to talk to you.”

“…Okay. Yeah.”

_I love you._


	14. Asphyxiation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey wht the fuck is this

How in the ever-loving _fuck_ had it gotten to this?

It started out as a night of good fun with the other guys in SWAT. There’d been ten of you in total, moseying from bar to bar and taking turns shouting drinks; you knew all of them, were _friends_ with all of them, and even the captain’s _I’d-rather-be-anywhere-than-here_ attitude couldn’t dampen your night.

So… how, exactly, did you end up in a sleazy bathroom stall with that very same captain’s forearm crushing your windpipe? And, more importantly, with his hand shoved down the front of your jeans?

Fuck if you know.

Doesn’t matter now, anyway. You’ve both had one too many drinks and it’s getting to your heads; the alcohol and the rank stink of the bathrooms, the haze of the bar and the lecherous eyes that had followed you since the moment you stepped in… you can’t make sense of it anymore. Not enough air. Blood rushing to your head, down between your legs, each finger, each toe. Allen’s breath hot and tasting of scotch, washing across your mouth, heavy. You let out a garbled groan and see a glint of teeth between his lips.

“Want me to stop?”

“ _No_ –,” you croak out before he can even finish; his arm presses harder and his fingers probe deeper, thick and clumsy with alcohol, pushing up between the drenched lips of your cunt. You rasp out a breath when he pushes in.

It had been an accident, of course. A stupid game of truth-or-dare where you had to drink if you didn’t cooperate. You were drunk enough by that stage to not _care_ what you did, so when you’d been dared to put your tongue in Captain Allen’s mouth you’d crawled into his lap and done just that, gloating in the impressed hooting of your friends. Allen had looked both dishevelled and markedly displeased. His hand was clenched on your knee the entire time; his lips were just as soft as you expected them to be (not that you’d thought about it before, of course).

(That’s a lie. Of course you’d thought about it before.)

After that, you noticed something in him. Something firm and cutting; his eyes followed you. You liked it. So you acted out, drew his attention whenever it strayed, until you accidentally-on-purpose spilled your drink down his front.

And that’s what led you here, you suppose. Because Allen knew what you were getting at – the smirk he gave you as he locked that bathroom stall told you that you’d been utterly transparent. He was pissed and evidently just as horny as you were.

“Never pegged you to be into this sort of thing,” he snarls in your ear as he fucks you with his fingers. Your legs melt apart and you moan, hands slipping uselessly against the grimy stall walls. Your palms are sweating. Allen lets his grip up for a moment and you take in a few deep lungfuls of sweet, blessed air before his fingers are on your throat, squeezing as though he truly hopes to strangle the life out of you. Despite it all you grin at him.

“That’s all you’ve got?” you demand, voice little more than a rattle. It sounds… pathetic. Wet and raw. Allen’s nose crinkles in a half-sneer and his mouth is suddenly on yours, lips parted and his tongue pressing past your teeth, down your throat. You kiss him back, hands gripping at his clothing, urging him closer. His grip is vice-like, pressing in all the right places until your head begins to swim and your vision begins to darken round the edges. Just as you’re on the verge of passing out, Allen lets up, and you can feel the line of his erection against your thigh. The thought of getting utterly rawed in some gritty bathroom stall has never appealed to you so much in your life.

Allen licks up the drool on your chin and your neck. You rut like a pair of teenagers drunk on your own sensation; you still only when the door opens and a few clamorous voices pour into the dingy little bathroom.

“The fuck’s Allen at?” someone slurs, and as you catch Allen’s eye in the half-darkness you realise that those are your friends – friends who could _not_ , under any circumstance, catch you. And yet the fear of being caught – of being seen with your captain’s fingers deep in your cunt and his hand round your throat – makes your hips buck _hard_ against his hand, and Allen hesitantly resumes fucking you, mouthing at your ear and neck. Your moan is swallowed by hungry lips.

“Maybe we upset him,” someone else says; you hear the distinct sound of them using the urinals. “Shit, I’m smashed.”

Voices muddle in your brain as Allen thumbs your clit. Unable to stop yourself, you let out a crooked groan against his cheek, and hear your friends pause outside the stall. Laughter, and a sharp knock on the door. “Holy shit! Someone’s fuckin’ in there.”

More laughter, and you cum violently as they stand on the other side of the door with _no idea_ just who is getting fucked. That it’s you. That _you’re getting off on your boss choking you_. Because it’s filthy and disgusting and you’ll hate yourself tomorrow, for certain, but right now you can’t bring yourself to care. You lick your lips, eyes rolling wildly, body shuddering until the stall door begins to rattle.

“Good girl,” Allen murmurs against your lips. He releases your throat, and it’s only thanks to his arms that you don’t collapse. “Now get on your knees. I want to try choking you with something else.”

You already know his hand is on his fly; your mouth waters, and you drop to your knees, nuzzling the crotch of his pants. “Yes, sir,” you slur. Body aflame. Allen’s cock is heavy and fat and you hope to every god that ever was that he might just take you home.


	15. Uniforms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> duh

There’s something about uniforms – you don’t know what it is – that gets under your skin. You first realised it as a teenager, and it was something that followed you well into your adult life. It’s a joke amongst your friends – _oh, she loves a man in uniform!_ – and it’s no secret, not really. You don’t mind. There are weirder kinks out there.

But seeing Captain Allen in his SWAT uniform completely blows frivolity out of the water. It’s the kind of thing that makes you wet; you have dreams of his boot holding your head to the ground, of his gun digging into your belly or your back or your cunt. He wears it so well, so commandingly, so _easily,_ that whenever you see him in it your eyes look nowhere else.

But, of course, Allen doesn’t know this.

You’re with him at the aftermath of a violent riot in the southern suburbs. Anti-android protestors. They’d suppressed them, but not without a struggle, and Allen’s face was bleeding from a wound above his hairline. You arrived with forensics, and the moment you saw him standing there in that uniform of his, bleeding and holding a rifle as long as your leg, you were quite sure you would faint.

You’re gripped by uneasiness the whole time you’re there. You keep looking at him; at some point he notices, and you catch him glancing at you every now and again as he talks to the other officers. It’s only when you approach him to speak to your boss (who he’s talking to) that he looks you full in the face, and for a moment all you can do is stand there gobsmacked.

“You all right?” your boss asks. “You don’t look so good.” Which doesn’t make sense, you know, because you’ve seen some truly grisly scenes before.

“Fine,” you say, flushing when your voice breaks. You’re aware of Allen watching you intently.

The tip of his rifle jabs your thigh as he turns towards you, eyes curious. The sound you make is… well. Embarrassing. Part-way between a gasp and a moan. When you glance at Allen his brows are slightly raised, and you hazard a glance at his uniform, swallowing the lump in your throat.

Your boss notices. He, like the rest of your team, is well aware of your weakness for uniforms (and finds the whole business unendingly hilarious). He laughs, clapping you on the shoulder and shaking his head; he leaves you with a parting grin, and then you’re _alone_ with Allen.

“He seems to know something I don’t,” Allen mutters, and _oh_ if you don’t almost moan again – you’re not sure how much longer your legs will hold you up.

“It’s, um… a thing. A joke, I guess? They think I have a thing for uniforms and roughed-up officers.” You hope your fake-laugh is convincing.

Something seems to settle behind Allen’s eyes, then. His face grows firm. “Do you?”

You pause. Swallow. And then, quietly, “…yeah.”

His rifle is against your leg again. Not jabbing, this time, but instead beginning a torturously slow climb up your inner calf, then your knee, then you thigh, catching every now and again against the weave of your pantyhose. Your heart races and you can barely hear anything over the sound of your own blood rushing. Nobody can see properly in the flashing of police car lights, so by the time his rifle reaches its destination you’re blinking back tears of sheer, utter desire.

“Behind the van.”

Your breath sits in your throat as you go. You feel him follow you, and once you’re hidden from sight by the bulk of the SWAT van his rifle is tossed against its side and his hands are on your arms. You’re pinned between him and the van, his face in your neck and undoubtedly getting blood everywhere, but you don’t care. His uniform is hard and uncomfortable, but you don’t care. _You don’t care_. All you care about is the way his gloved fingers slip between your legs; you huff into his neck as he fucks you open on his fingers, mouthing filthy things against your ear, clutching at the bulk of his body.

“I’ve got a thing for uniforms, too,” he breathes as you shudder against his body; the words vibrate against your lips, broken by wet kisses. “Your uniforms… all those skirts and blouses. The latex gloves.” He pushes in especially deep and you let out a delighted gasp. “Those _fucking_ pantyhose.”

Pleasure blinds both of you, and he fucks you there, back against the van and your pantyhose laddering against the buckles of his uniform. He comes between your cunt and your panties – which had only been pulled down a little – and then pulls them up before pulling your skirt down again. He taps your thigh, then his lips. “Keep those on.”

You flush deeply, horrified at how fucked-out you must look, but nod. Then he kisses you, picks up his rifle, and leaves.

Only later that night when you undress do you find the slip of paper with his phone number on it.


	16. Frottage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter looked a lot longer in my word document

The evening commute always sucks. It’s right in the middle of peak-hour, which in Detroit means the equivalent of a buffalo stampede – and yet it has to be done, because your car _finally_ kicked the bucket and paying a cab fare both ways is too expensive. And so you find yourself on a crowded train every morning and every evening, packed between sour-smelling bodies and screaming children.

It sucks, but it has to be done.

You board the 6:11 train outbound, pressing in among the suits and pencil skirts. Every single seat is filled, and the passengers crowd down the aisles, clinging onto poles and hand-grips. You end up in the middle of the throng, clinging to a pole and trying not to topple into anyone whenever the train jolts too violently.

At some point you feel a press against your thigh. Probably just someone’s accident, since it’s impossible to have _any_ space on a train this packed; but then it returns again, surer this time, and you know it isn’t a mistake. It’s a hand – it smooths up the length of your thigh, then over your hip when you don’t move away. The sensation is cloying. Pleasurable, almost. And yet you’re afraid, because that invasive hand is growing bolder, feeling along the curve of your backside until –

You let out a sharp gasp as fingers press up between your legs from behind. You snap your jaw shut, ignoring a few concerned glances thrown in your direction, and grip even more tightly to the pole. Your head swims and, despite how disgusting it’s meant to make you feel, your legs melt apart.

There’s a low huff of laughter in your ear; your assailant has moved closer, spurred on by the way you let your body rock to and fro with the motion of the train, dragging against his fingertips. You don’t pull away, don’t make a sound, and soon a second hand joins the first, firm fingers pressing into your hip. Your forehead finds the metal of the pole and it’s cool, too cool – you’re flushed and far too warm. Your heartbeat has dropped to your cunt and it _throbs_ , desperate to chase the touch.

Nobody notices. Nobody notices as the man behind you puts his hand up under your skirt, over your underwear; he feels how wet you are already, cotton sodden, and you feel the distinct ridge of an erection pressed against your ass. Your breath bubbles in your throat as he begins to rut against you in time to the train, and your body presses back against each thrust, rolling between his clothed cock and the heel of his hand, which is pressed hard over your clit. Your hide your face in the crook of your elbow and humiliation consumes you – it’s the humiliation and the filth that makes you come, eventually, disguising the shudder of your body when the train passes into the darkness of a transit tunnel. You feel him stiffen, feel hot breath on the back of your neck, the sound of a half-formed moan quickly swallowed back down. You shiver.

By the time you arrive at your stop you’ve regained your senses a little. Your body aches after those searching fingers, which are now nowhere to be found, and you try your best to smooth down your hair and regulate your breathing. Walking is hard; your legs feel like jelly. Glancing behind you, you see nobody. As the commuters pour out onto the platform you’re carried along with their current, and it’s only after you’ve left the station that you feel your phone buzz in your pocket. Taking it out, you see a notification from Allen’s number.

_Tomorrow, same train. I’m taking you home afterwards._

You smile and press your fingers to your lips, legs going weak all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was all pre-negotiated for those of u wondering


	17. Collaring/Orgasm Denial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this a sleep-deprived trance im sorry

“You know,” you say, your voice the only sliver of sound in the otherwise quiet room. “I think I like you like this.”

Oh, but Allen looks so lovely on his knees with not a scrap of clothing save the heavy leather collar buckled round his throat – his spine is stiff, eyes alert and bright. His gaze is centred on you, though, grounded on where you stand. There’s expectation there. You feel it just as much as see it. And, so, you can’t help but take a few steps forwards, crossing the space between you and taking his chin into your hand. You stroke your fingers over his jaw, his cheeks, smiling when he leans into your touch and nuzzles against you palm.

David Allen is a possessive man. You know this. He’s left you with hickeys on more than one occasion, leaving them in visible places purely so others would see, would _know_ that you were his. He is possessive. But so are you.

This is quieter than hickeys or public displays of possession. It’s more private. Something for you both – for Allen to know that you want him as much as he wants you. It’s what the collar is for; you wear it, sometimes, and let him drag you around by the throat. But sometimes – just sometimes – it’s Allen who dons the leather, settling beneath the weight of it, the chill of the buckle.

“You’re mine,” you tell him gently. He looks at you, face impassive, and nods. “Say it, David.”

He does.

You draw him to his feet. He stands taller than you, but what with your fingers looped through the leather round his neck he appears smaller; you drag him down by the throat and kiss him, pulling away as soon as he becomes greedy. Tonight, you remind him, is about _you_. He will do as he’s told or get nothing at all.

Allen swallows; you lean in and bite down against where his trachea shivers.

He bestows many delicious sounds that night. He follows wherever you lead, whether it be by beckoning finger or a harsh hand to the back of the neck; you bind his hands with rope, tie his legs apart, bring bruises to the surface of his skin with your hands and your teeth. You grin as he writhes and squirms. Pain is always displayed so beautifully on him. You lay loving hands to his dick, bringing him right to the precipice of relief before shoving him back a step or two. It takes hours, but finally the desperation begins to drive him mad.

He hangs his head, unable to draw breath, drool sluicing from between his teeth. You laugh. “You look like a rabid dog.” And he does, oh, he does – but he doesn’t care, because he knows you’re the only one who can see him like this, the only one he would ever trust. “Go on. Beg.”

With a face turned skyward he begs you. He presses his face to your thigh and begs. The arch of his spine, the quivering tautness of each muscle, the trembling of sinew; it all makes a masterpiece. You wrap your hand around his collar and pull until he can’t breathe.

It’s been hours. His cock sits flushed and drooling between his legs. Heavy. _Aching_. You almost feel pain just by looking at it; he seems to have forgone all coherent thought. You draw the breath from his lungs and kiss him lovingly upon the mouth.

And then you jam your knee up beneath his cock and mutter, “Come for me, David.”

He does. He comes, rutting against you leg like an animal, his face pressed into your shoulder and howls of anguish pouring from his throat. He comes and comes and comes until he can’t even bear to hold himself upright; you watch as he lies gasping on the floor, glistening flesh and rapid breaths. You touch him; his skin is cold and slippery.

“Dave?” You press his name as a kiss against his cheek. His limbs move, sluggish, drunken. And then he laughs, the sound drawn and exhausted and immensely satisfied. “Are you okay?”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, and one of his hands finds yours. His fingers are clammy, but you hold them tightly anyway, kissing his upturned face.

Because you’re the only one he trusts to anoint him with heavy leather and chilled brass buckles. Yours are the only hands he would let fasten a collar about his neck. It is only you. Only you.


	18. Role Reversal

“Get on your fucking knees.”

You can tell he’s trying to keep the fear out of his face. But it doesn’t work – you see it anyway. You always see it. The straight line of his brow glistens with sweat and you fancy you can hear his heartbeat even from across the room; it thunders in his throat as he glances, panicked, between your officers. But he lowers himself to his knees all the same, keeping his hands behind his head. The skin of his throat glistens. The button of his collar hangs open and dishevelled.

“Cortez, you and Thomas go search the roof. I want Rhodes and Michaels on floor two, Lewindon and Jones on floor three. Don’t even think about coming back here until you find that deviant, are we clear?” Your voice is a bark; sharp, loud, clear. It cuts like ice and your officers bark back, a group of dogs hot on a scent, and with the pounding of boots they split off until it’s just you and him. This stranger, on his knees, staring up at you with unnervingly clear eyes.

You approach him slowly, careful to keep your rifle pointed at the ground; he doesn’t look like much of a threat, but you never know. You’ve got your fare shares of scars from when you’d assumed wrongly.

“What’s your name?”

He swallows. “…Allen.”

He’s handsome. Very handsome. Even in the ugly glare of the fluorescent lights, and even as sweat soaks through his shirtfront, he still looks like he stepped out of a noir detective film. Hesitantly, you sling your rifle back over your shoulder and walk over to where he kneels in the middle of the floor. It’s eerily silent, now, save for the stifled movements of your team upstairs. The thrill of the hunt is suspended for a little while as you look at the man in front of you, contemplating just what to do with him.

Nobody can see you, here. You’d found him in one of the back rooms filing papers – he hadn’t even heard the gunshots thanks to the thick, insulated walls. The shock he’d displayed at turning around and seeing a squadron of armed SWAT officers almost made you laugh. The room is small. Cramped with filing cabinets and old, disused terminals.

You decide you quite like the sight of him on his knees.

“The deviant,” you say softly. “Tell me what you know about it.”

Allen’s mouth is sticky. “I… what? Deviant?”

“The android.” Less softly, this time. “The one who shot my officer.”

Realisation dawns, horrified, in his eyes. “It…? We only have one android to work the front desk.”

You pull out the sig from your belt. He talks rather quickly after that.

After radioing through to your men and divulging what little information you got from Allen, you turn back to him and lean against the cabinets. He looks up at you, unsure, waiting.

“You can put your hands down. But don’t try anything.”

Allen flexes his fingers and winces as feeling returns to them. His hair gleams and you can’t help but reach out and fist your hand in it, tugging. “You know, since I have you all to myself for a little bit, I have an idea.”

Those words coupled with your grip in his hair sends panic flashing across his face. Well – the gun in your other hand might have something to do with it, too.

“What are you –,” He doesn’t get the chance to finish as you drag him across the floor and press his face against the seam of your trousers. His hands go to your thighs, fingers digging in over the body armour and tightly-weaved fabric. Those dark brows knit together, and he huffs out a few difficult breaths; the sig hovers just to the side of his head, though, and he’s very well aware of it. So he doesn’t jerk back like his instinct tells him to.

For once, you say nothing. You smooth your fingers against his scalp and allow him to tilt his head, freeing his nose to breathe, sighing as his mouth parts against your crotch. The sensation is dulled by your clothes, but it’s still _there_ , and the sight of Allen in such a compromising position makes your belly burn.

Gloved fingers pop open your fly; it’s a tight squeeze and more than a little uncomfortable to wrestle down your pants enough, but once you do and his mouth is on your bare flesh _God it’s good –_

Perhaps it’s fear that drives him. Perhaps it’s lust. Perhaps it’s a bit of both. His tongue drags up your slit, full lips sucking and mouthing around your clit; you grind your hips down against his face as he eats you out with the desperation only a terrified man can muster. Your rasping breaths excite him, and you press the sole of your boot down between his legs until he chokes on his pleasure between your own thighs, cramming two thick fingers inside you and turning them this way and that until he has you bucking down against his mouth, gun shoved up against his temple. He’s sweating, now, breathing just as heavily as you are, pulse pounding against the cold kiss of metal against the side of his head. All it would take is a slip of the finger to blow his brains across the room.

Your entire body ripples as you come. You shove your boot hard between his legs and he barks out in pain, letting you shove him away and fix your pants. He’s still disgracefully hard; his mouth and chin glisten with your fluids, hair mussed and cheeks flushed. You point your gun at his crotch.

“You’d better take care of that before they get back.” Oh, it’s shameful how rough your voice is. And yet, despite the shame and the risk of being caught, you make him undo his fly and take his cock into his hand, fingers trembling as he jerks himself off. Only when you step forwards and press the toe of your boot to his dick does he clench his teeth and come, each muscle tensing, hips rising from the floor. You laugh as he licks his spend from your shoe without being asked.

Not a minute later does your radio crackle to life, Cortez’s voice breaking the heavy air. “Located!”

“Bring it in,” you reply, hoping they don’t notice how odd you sound.

Allen gets to his feet, then, brushing down his knees and straightening his shirt. With flashing eyes, he punches you clean across the jaw.

“Are you fucking _crazy_?” he hisses, wrenching the sig from your hand as your head reels from the hit. Lucky your nose isn’t bleeding.

“I win again!” Cortez sings as she and the other officers file back into the room. She looks at you, then at Allen, then back at you again. “What happened to you two?”

“She got clocked for making Allen play hostage, I bet,” Jones says, flipping up his visor.

Allen spares you one last glare before turning to the rest of your team. “All right, that’s enough. Report back to the van and get the fuck out of here.”

Eventually your team files out, guns holstered and helmets under their arms. Then it’s just  you and Allen. He turns to you and shoves _your_ sig up under your chin, crowding you against the cabinet.

“That’s the _one and only_ time I will _ever_ let you pull a stunt like that,” he snarls. You lick your teeth and bite back a smile. “You’d take care to remember that _I_ am the captain of this squad regardless of what role I take during training exercises.”

“Your place or mine, captain?”

He frowns, pausing as though he can’t believe your audacity. With a disgusted snort he shoves your gun back into your belt and steps away. “…Mine.”


	19. Public

“I bet I can steal three bottles of Moet from the buffet.”

“Uh, no. Jones’s record is five. Depends on whether or not you want to get kicked out like he did, though.”

Cortez jams her elbow into Lewindon’s side as laughter bubbles up from your squadmates; you’re all standing dressed in your blues, fiddling with your badges and buttons as you wait around for your captain to arrive so you can finally sit and stuff your faces with shitty buffet food.

“I’m starving,” someone groans, and everyone else agrees. You’re only here for the free booze and food, anyway. Awards? Who cares. You already know that Cortez is going to get one, and Allen, and that shiny new android from homicide. Oh, and Anderson. You had to admit that you’re glad to see him crawling out from his hovel of self-destruction, though. In the end, however, you’d rather be at home in your pyjamas with a good old box of Chinese take-out.

Finally Allen arrives. It’s unusual for him to be anything other than punctual, but he’d been caught up with another one of the senior officers. Rhodes whistles as he approaches you.

“Fashionably late, sir.”

“Can it, Rhodes.” His words are clipped, but you see the smile in his eyes as he says it. Your friends chuckle. You follow Allen over to your table, and across the room you spot the other departments heading to theirs. The senior officers gather by the dais with heady bent low and voices hushed, uniforms emblazoned with badges and various medals. Award nights are always such a drag, and as you take a glass from Jones you wonder why you didn’t just call in sick.

“Stop giggling, this isn’t middle school.” Allen’s voice cuts harsh across your table and you all fall silent, barely able to swallow your conspiratory smiles as Cortez eyes up the row of champagne bottles at the buffet.

The speeches drone on and on; at some point you lose track of time, spinning the tip of your knife against the tablecloth. Your brain is going numb with boredom, and you can tell you’re not the only one. But there’s still the promise of free food afterwards, so somehow you find the will to hang in there. You don’t notice Allen watching you from across the table until he accidentally knocks his own knife to the ground, sending it skittering beneath the table. Jones offers to pick it up, but with a curt gesture Allen slides from his seat and goes after it himself.

 _Jeez,_ you think, stifling a yawn. _He must be pretty bored too if he’s gotten that clumsy._

Then you feel a touch against your leg. It takes everything you have not to yelp, and you scoot back a little to peek beneath the table; as you lift the tablecloth a slip of light falls across Allen’s face, and you realise that the knife had been no accident. His hand closes around your ankle and, despite your common sense screaming at you that this is a _bad idea_ , you let him pull your legs open.

Jones and Lewindon start a game of tic-tac-toe on the table between them. Cortez pretends not to be nodding off. Someone else is on their phone, or picking at their nails, or staring off into space. Nobody is paying the slightest bit of attention to you, and thank God for that. Your eyelids flutter as strong hands slide up your calves and your thighs, and you’re endlessly thankful that you decided to wear a skirt.

For a moment you consider reaching down and pushing his head away. After all, you’re in a public place – a formal DPD dinner! – and if anyone was to glance underneath the table, you’d be fired and probably put on the sex offender list. _Both_ of you would. And yet… that’s what makes it so irresistible. Allen, usually so upstanding and law-abiding, is under the table in the middle of a crowded room doing filthy, deplorable things. He’s already hooked his fingers into your underwear and pushes them to the side so he can slot his mouth between your legs. You’re familiar with the way his tongue feels, how it pushes and drags; something is different this time, though. Shivers race along each limb, up your spine and the back of your neck, and it’s only those sure hands on your knees that keep your legs from shaking.

He eats you out like a starving man. You slump in your chair and cant your hips forwards, fingers fisted in the tablecloth to make sure it doesn’t slip; your face is flushed, but nobody notices. Well… almost nobody. It’s only Cortez, who catches your eye and gives you a slightly concerned look, that seems able to tell that something’s wrong. She looks at you for a moment, then at Allen’s empty chair, and you can _see_ the moment she connects the dots: Allen’s absence, your contorted expression and reddened cheeks, your odd posture… she _knows_ , and that knowledge makes you even wetter than before. You can’t help it; you turn your face from her in shame, hiding it in your hands as you come _hard_ against Allen’s face, his arms wrapping around your thighs to keep you from overturning the table. You’re sweating and trying not to give away your breathlessness.

Beneath the table, Allen slowly licks you clean. Your hips shiver and your thigh muscles clamp from the sensitivity. Only when he slides your underwear back into place and gives you a smug kiss on your knee does he emerge from beneath the table, knife in hand. He smooths his hair back against his scalp and still, somehow, nobody notices.

“I can’t believe you,” Cortez leans towards you and murmurs. “I’m gonna have nightmares tonight. Thanks.”

You laugh, and she shoots you an exasperated-but-amused kind of smile. Together you pretend not to know, and together you end up smuggling six bottles of champagne from the buffet.


	20. Emetophilia/Dirty Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LONG TIME NO SEE FELLAS sorry for going mia - i had to travel out of town for a while and didn't have my laptop. i'm still gonna keep working on this bc it's fun but it probably won't be a daily thing just bc my life is hectic currently!!!!!! but ya don't worry, i have many scrumptious daddy allen shenanigans planned for the future
> 
> anyways enjoy this fuckin. FILTH. namaste
> 
> tw//emetophilia is basically vomiting for those of u not aware so don't read this if it squicks u out pls & thank

He hit you.

He hit you and you loved it, because you _always_ loved it, filthy as you were – and he knew you loved it. So he backhanded you right across the face just after you came by rutting against his leg like a dog, knocking you flat on your ass with reeling vision and a stinging cheek. You grin through the pain and feel the sharp bite of blood against your tongue from where your inner cheek had split against your teeth. Allen hit _hard._ He wasn’t a SWAT captain for nothing, you supposed.

“You’re disgusting,” he said in that cold, quiet voice of his, crouching down in front of you and fisting a hand in your hair. It was still gloved. He was still in his uniform. And you – you were buck-ass naked with a face covered in tears and saliva. He sounded so nonchalant, as though none of this was bothering him at all, as though you weren’t shivering on the floor of his office, slicking the floor up with your juices. “Why do I even do this…?”

Your grin widened and you laughed a hollow, rattling laugh. “Because you love it.”

He hit you again. It lanced right down to your cunt.

“Say that again,” he dared you. He stood from his chair, pushing it calm-as-you-please into his desk and fixing you with those ice-chip eyes of his.

“You love it.”

A kick to you belly, this time; it had you doubling over and gasping, clutching at your gut. _That_ was going to bruise tomorrow – a deep violet streak across your belly that you’d no doubt press your fingers to whenever you got the chance. You licked your teeth as you spluttered, grin faltering but still there. Allen didn’t like that. Not one bit.

He crouched down again and put his face very close to yours; you could feel his even breaths against your face, all the more humiliating as you spluttered and wheezed and tried to swallow down the bile that rose along your tongue. You met his eyes and held them.

“I can be even worse,” you told him. It came out as a threat even though you hadn’t meant it to. Maybe you had. Nothing made sense anymore, not there, not then, not with you inches from Allen’s lips, not with his dick already straining at the front of his pants. Rationality had been obliterated the moment you walked through that door. He knew that. _You_ knew that. He gripped your jaw in one strong hand and pinched until your mouth opened. He spat directly into it and you shuddered, every nerve set aflame.

“Can you?” It’s only then he finally kissed you; it was hot and open-mouthed and messy, more as though he was trying to fuck you with his tongue rather than kiss you at all. You sucked that tongue into your mouth and moaned around it, drool wetting your lips and clinging to his day-old stubble. His hair – usually so neat and pomaded – unravelled about his forehead. Sweat clung to his upper lip. He was hot in his uniform. _Too hot_. The room was close and stifling and smelled of spit and sex and sweat.

His question, though – it made you laugh a cruel laugh that had his eyebrows tightening. You laughed because he ought to have known the answer already.

“You know I can.”

He held your eyes. A breath passed between you, checking, understanding. There was a smile in your eyes; there was a plea. You reached out blindly until your hands found his ankles, and you gripped them, _squeezing._

“Sit back and let me show you, captain.”

When you purr his title like that he can never resist. He took his seat behind his desk and you swivelled it around to face you; sitting back on your knees you wasted no time in popping his fly (because of course you know just how those uniforms work by now) and yanking down his briefs. You were right – he was already achingly hard just from tossing you around and watching you grind yourself to completion on his shoe.

You moaned like a whore as you nuzzle at the base of his dick. It was musky after spending all day in the field, sweating and stifling beneath the August sun. You loved that smell. It made your pussy tingle and your gut coil with tight heat. Always, always, always.

Slotting the flat of your tongue to the underside, you dragged it up the length of his cock, tracing the veins with the tip of your tongue until they reached the glans; you worked your tongue up around those, too, dipping beneath Allen’s foreskin until it slowly peeled back. His head was sensitive and he shivered as you lathed your tongue across it, fisting your hand at the base and working it up and down as you sucked. You took him deeper, inch by inch, until the office was filled with disgusting, slopping sounds that made you spread your knees wider and drip even more viciously. You gagged each time he hit the back of your soft palate, repulsive _glugging_ noises that sent drool dripping from your lips and down the length of his cock, making it slick and shiny and deliciously slippery. Wetter, wetter, wetter. You begun to hump your hips against the air and hazarded a glance up at Allen; his face was flushed, mouth open, tongue balanced on his lower lip. His fingers were rigid in your hair, but they didn’t push, nor did they pull. They just… sat there. Irritated, you dragged yourself off his cock with a _pop_ , spit roping between your lips and the head.

“Fuck my mouth,” you slurred. “Then maybe you can fuck my cunt.”

Allen’s teeth snapped shut and his hand – oh, _God yes_ – wrenched at your hair until you were sure he’d snap your neck in half. He leaned in, pressing his mouth to your cheek and snarling, “You’re not the one calling the shots here. Remember that.” He then shoves you back down into his lap, stuffing his dick into your mouth and biting down on his smile as you gagged around it.

Allen had issued you a challenge. You didn’t turn down challenges. Not ever.

Now was no different.

The chair squeaked in effort beneath the rocking of Allen’s hips as he fucked up into your mouth. Tears stung at your eyes and made your vision swim, and your head went light from lack of air, but God, you loved it – you loved how he tore at your hair and paid no mind to your pained gagging, nor the hands fisting against his thighs, nor the tears that now streaked down your cheeks; in fact, he wasn’t even looking at you at all, his head tipped back and eyes screwed shut.

 _Bastard_ , you thought, and vaguely considered biting him. _Better not_. The last thing you needed was a knee to the trachea.

He fucked harder and deeper, his swollen cock breaching into your throat again and again, stroking against your uvula and tonsils; your throat began to tense, constrict and release, convulse with vaguely familiar sensations. Your eyes rolled back into your head and you let him. Your belly was still disturbed from his kick earlier, rolling and turning, and his brutal use of your mouth only made it worse. The sensation, the _smell_ –

“Oh, God, oh – _shit_ –,” Allen half-shouted and half-laughed in utter disbelief as your entire body shuddered and grew cold; you writhed in his grip as your gut convulsed, a heaving mass of flesh and blood, and you threw the contents of your stomach up into his lap. Allen’s face screwed up with disgust – revulsion, even – but he kept _fucking,_ unable to stop himself from grinding your face into the mess you were making.

It streamed from your nose and your eyes streamed with tears. And yet Allen fucked your grinning mouth even harder, forcing the acrid-tasting stuff right back down your throat. Your stomach heaved again, and again, until you had nothing left to haul up but spit and bile.

“You’re fucking – _revolting_ –,” His words came out half-clipped and hurried. He was _really_ sweating, now, both hands gripping your head as he fucked your warm, wet, filthy mouth. “Dirty fucking bitch –,”

 _I am,_ you wanted to moan, but all that came out was a muffled whine around his cock. _I am, you know I am._

He came all over your face, smearing it across the mess of your mouth. Then, breathing hard, he shoved your face down into his lap. Into your own vomit. “Lick it up,” he said. You felt the toe of his boot nudge up between your legs. “And maybe I’ll let you fuck yourself on my shoe until you come.”

You do it. You do it because you’re disgusting, and foul, and revolting – you do it because you _know_ Allen will get worked up watching you lick your own vomit from his lap, that he’ll end up slamming you down over his desk (or on the floor, or against the wall, the options were endless) and fucking you until you were sick all over again.


	21. Food Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey its me, back on my bullshit  
> this is a bit dreamy but i've had like 4 hours of sleep and havent eaten in like. 18 hours

You’re sitting in Allen’s car when you mention it. It’s off-handed, dreamy, and you’re not fully awake when you speak. Your mind had already drifted into the realm of half-dreams and memories. It’s ten o’clock at night and the bright gleam of the streetlights pass across your knees in a dizzying yet steady rhythm. Allen is a steady driver, after all, hands firm on the wheel, eyes trained on the road. You can’t help but watch him; he’s so serious like this, working his jaw in concentration, struggling not to look over at the bare stretch of your legs.

“I read a book once,” you say quietly, tongue heavy. “A lovely book. Confusing, but somehow magical, I… it felt like a fever dream.”

Something in Allen’s jaw twitches. Neither of you had turned on the radio; all there is between you is silence and the hum of the engine. His eyes strain. He doesn’t look at you.

“A fever dream,” you repeat, and the car is so warm and it’s so cold outside, the windows icy to the touch. You want to fall asleep. To dream. To dream of Allen, of what his hands would feel like if he reached out (like he obviously wanted to) and closed his fingers around your thigh. You want him to. You ache for it. “There was this bit where… where. It was summer, see, and it was hot, and these two lovers spent days just making love, barely eating, barely sleeping. They barely left the bed. They never wore clothes, either. It’s sort of… gross when I think about it, really, all that sweat and humidity. But there was a specific part I keep thinking of. I can’t get it out of my mind.”

And you stop – because you don’t want to just rattle off a tale of two lovers who spent the blistering Colombian summers wrapped up in erotic abandon. You want him to be curious about it.

You want him to _ask._

And Allen – despite his rigorous self-discipline and surly attitude, he’s still human. He can’t resist bait that’s offered so freely. So temptingly. Because there are a thousand promises in the words you haven’t yet said, a Pandora’s box just waiting to burst open.

Silence, silence. The engine is loud, older, probably from the 20s. You’ve always found it endearing, though.

“What part?”

His voice is so quiet you barely hear it. The tenor of it rides along the backbone of the engine’s rumble and for a moment you think you’ve misheard; but then you meet his gaze, finally dragged from the road to your face, and you know he’d taken it hook, line, and sinker.

You turn your eyes back to the road before closing them. You can see it clearly in your mind, the same way you’ve imagined it since your childhood. “A part,” you continue, voice low enough to be rough. “Where the two lovers slather themselves in honey – or… was it jam? – and lick it from each other’s bodies. They’re so infatuated with each other they don’t even notice when they get swarmed by ants.” You pause for a moment, breath hot in your throat. “It’s… romantic, really. Erotic. Sometimes I forget it’s just fiction and not a memory of my own.”

The steering jars just for a moment before growing steady. It sways you, like tipping a bottle of molasses, and you move heavy and sweet in the passenger seat like you just might melt into a puddle of warm butter. These thoughts have softened you, made you warm. All of a sudden you’re aware of Allen’s breathing. It seems louder than it did before.

“I have a copy of the book at my place,” you supply. “I could read it to you.”

Allen, of course, could suggest you just look it up on your phone, or stream it from the library. But he doesn’t. He merely reaches out and turns the GPS console towards you.

The drive to your place is silent. It’s empty and dark when you arrive. Allen at least takes off his jacket, slinging it over the back of a chair and letting his eyes roam over the wallpaper, over the framed pictures, over all the old-time little baubles you haven’t had the heart to get rid of. You go over to the bookcase by the television; redundant, these days, what with everything being digitalised, but you’ve always found an odd comfort in physical novels. The smell of them isn’t something you can explain.

You pull it out from its home between _Anna Karenina_ and _Norwegian Wood._ Its cover is faded, a maze of leaves and vines in shades of chatreuse that were once green. And when you turn to its pages you know where to look, because there’s a sliver that’s been more heavily-thumbed than the rest, the pages rubbed raw and smooth. You hook your finger into its spine and let the book fall open as you make your way to the couch. Allen still hasn’t sat, but you can tell he’s watching you, even if you’re not watching him.

“Oh, here, look.” You tap the page. “Shall I read it to you?”

Allen’s voice sounds far-away. He’s across the living area, beyond the little dining table, leaning against the kitchen counters. Arms folded. Brow stormy. Watching, watching.

Your voice is thick in your throat. Stalling. Too hot. You begin to read anyway.

“ _They lost their sense of reality, the notion of time, the rhythm of daily habits,_ ” you begin, and the moment the first word leaves your mouth you feel yourself descending into the warmth of your high school days when you would yearn for the far-away jungles of Macondo, for the gypsies and their tambourines, for the sweating heat and the sun. “ _They closed the doors and windows again so as not to waste time getting undressed and they walked about the house as Remedios the Beauty had wanted to do and they would roll around naked in the mud of the courtyard, and one afternoon they almost drowned as they made love in the cistern._ _They would give themselves over to the worship of their bodies_ , _discovering that the rest periods of love had unexplored possibilities, much richer than those of desire. While he would rub Amaranta Úrsula’s erect breasts with egg whites or smooth her elastic thighs and peach-like stomach with cocoa butter…”_ Oh, and there it was, the delicious section of words you’d had the audacity to highlight, glaring and orange. Your mouth is dry and you long to quench it with the juice of a ripe fruit. “ _One night they daubed themselves from head to toe with peach jam and licked each other like dogs and made mad love on the floor of the porch, and they were awakened by a torrent of carnivorous ants who were ready to eat them alive._ ”

The silence that follows is ponderous and consuming. Suddenly you’re unable to raise your eyes from the page to look at Allen, but you can _hear_ him. He’s… moving about, opening cupboards as though in search of something.

“Sounds foolish to me,” he says eventually in that same, impassive tone. “Going so crazy just for a fuck.”

He’s still searching. Still rifling through your cupboards. “I don’t think so,” you reply. “Because they’d been longing for each other for such a long time, you see, that when they finally came together they had to make up for lost time.” Then you pause. “There’s a part that reminds me of you, actually.”

That’s enough to make Allen pause. You hear the scrape of glass against the countertop. “Really?”

You read to him again. “ _And yet, while she was singing with pleasure and dying with laughter over her own inventions, Aureliano was becoming more and more absorbed and silent, for his passion was self-centered and burning._ ” You finally look up at him, but the kitchen is just as you left it, and he’s standing just where he had been before. You swallow. “That part.”

“So you think I’m self-centred?”

Allen moves. He approaches you, keeping close to the wall, until he passes beyond your field of vision and into the shadow behind you. You can feel him there, standing silently, watching you with those glass-clear eyes and unreadable temperament. You take the ear of the page between your thumb and forefinger, and slowly begin to stroke it.

“No. I think you’re silent. I think you’re… burning.”

“Open your mouth.”

You do so without even thinking. Your lips part even though you don’t turn to look at him, book still in your lap, fingers still caressing the page. And that’s just how he pushes his own fingers over your tongue; standing behind you, palm curled around your cheek, his middle and forefinger stroking along your soft palate.

You let out a little _mmph_ when he pulls his fingers free. You want them back in your mouth again; you lick at your lips and chase his hand with your tongue, but he pulls it out of reach too quickly. You hear something slick, and then the fingers are back, smearing something sticky across your mouth and chin before he grips your neck and tilts your head backwards, leaning down to press a messy, open-mouthed kiss right to your lips.

And you laugh, because how could you not? You laugh and reach back, letting the book fall to the floor as Allen’s sticky fingers drag down your throat and dive under your shirt. In his other hand is a jar; you picture, briefly, Allen plunging his fingers into the jelly, fucking them in and out before shoving them in your mouth. You imagine it’s your cunt instead of a jam jar. You shiver – Allen notices.

“Fucking stupid idea,” Allen mutters as he licks jam from your cunt not thirty minutes later; you’re spread out naked as the day you were born on your dining table, licking your own fingers before reaching for that wicked jar again. Your whole body is sticky, covered in jam only to be sucked clean by Allen’s rasping lips. He bites your thighs, smears his own sweet hands along them. He takes each toe into his mouth and sucks those as though he’s sucking your clit, and you shiver, pushing your whole hand into the jam jar as you come.

“We did it wrong,” you tell him, breathless, after you spend the next six hours in a delirium of lust, like those pages had lay a curse upon the both of you; all that talk of gypsy spells and miracles was sure to have _some_ power, after all.

“Did we?” Allen, bless him, sounds just as sapped of strength as you feel. He’s sweaty and sticky and all you want to do is put your tongue to his skin. Again.

“It’s apricot,” you explain, lazily gesturing to the (now empty) jam jar. “We need peach.”

“Well, then.” He kisses you. His tongue presses deep and you can’t help but moan around it, relishing in the way your skin sticks together, loathe to part. “I suppose we’ll need a repeat performance.”

And then you see them, just as your laughing into Allen’s mouth; a line of soldiering black specks making their way across the wall. They’re marching towards you, and you think of the carnivorous ants of Macondo; the thought of being eaten alive does nothing but make you burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the book this chapter refers to is 100 years of solitude by gabriel garcia marques!!!! 1000/10 would recommend, i always jump at the chance to reference this book in my writing


	22. Glory Hole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its no longer 2018 but whatever!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! my new boss's last name is allen and idk what to think about that
> 
> also tumblr is down for me atm so i cant access the kinktober list soooooo i picked another list!!!

It had been a bad day.

Sure, you had your fair share of bad days, but this one had been particularly bad. You’d overslept only to find that your car had suffered a peaceful death during the night, you’d spilled coffee down your front the moment you stepped into the bullpen, you had to suffer through an entire day of meetings, and to top it all off Allen had called you into his office just to tell you to clean up your act.

Fucking bastard.

It would’ve been easier if he’d yelled, but _no_ , he’d spoken to you in that quiet, fluid voice of his and all you could do was stand there and flush with shame.

_Fucking bastard._

On days like today you had… a certain coping mechanism. A bad one, sure, but everybody had their vices; you felt useless and devoid of hope and you needed something – _anything_ – to help you feel like you were worth something.

And that is why you are here, facing down the flickering neon sign of a sleazy dive bar, scarf pulled up tight around your ears in the hope that nobody recognises you. Anxiety sits high in your belly and makes you feel a little queasy – but it always does, it always does. With little more than a deep lungful of night air, you shoulder open the door and push yourself into the humid, closely-packed bar. A few people look at you, rake their eyes over you, notice the way your eyes shine like stars; you side past the bar before anyone can offer to buy you a drink, though a shot or two probably wouldn’t go astray.

The thought holds you. Pausing, you think on it, then remember just how _shitty_ today was and decide to treat yourself. You pull of your scarf and retrace your steps, letting the tepid air wash over your throat and clavicles. You breath it in. It’s dirty and gritty and perfect.

Three shots of rum later you feel the telltale warmth of the alcohol settle in your blood. _Liquid confidence,_ someone had once told you, and perhaps they’d been right – the anxiety dissipates and you head to the back of the bar with steps surer than before. The nausea has ignited into something of an excited tingle, slowly sinking lower and lower through your body until it settles just below your navel, a nigh-unnoticeable little throb.

The bathrooms are unisex and stink of urine. But even so, the floors are (relatively) clean and only one of the sinks has the taps missing. The fluorescent light flickers, little moths milling around its brightness. You feel like one of those moths – drawn inexorably to a light that will probably burn you sooner or later.

One of the stalls has an _out of order_ sign tacked upon its door. You push it open – the toilet has been out of order for months as far as you’re aware, and nobody has made any attempts to fix it. The lid is closed; you sit on it, hands balled into fists upon your thighs. To your right is a hole drilled through the side of the stall wall, about eye-level and ringed with duct tape. Some numbers are scrawled around it in fading black marker, some obscene messages, even a rather distasteful drawing or two. But none of that matters. Not now. Not like this.

Your heart leaps into your throat as you hear the bathroom door swing open. There’s the murmur of someone humming, perhaps a little drunkenly, and then a pause – you can feel eyes on the door of your stall, on the _occupied_ written in tiny red letters. Then the stall besides yours creaks open and you think you might be sick with nervousness.

A finger appears through the hole. It’s long and slender with a neat, unpainted nail; a woman’s finger. You lean in and press your lips to the tip of it, like a fish coming to the surface, nibbling. The woman gasps. You can practically feel her smile.

The finger pushes past your lips and over your teeth. It’s a clumsy thing, sliding and slippery over your tongue, but soon there are two more beside it and all you can do is sigh and suck. They taste nice; they’re sticky with the remnants of a margarita and the cold touch of an engagement ring hits your lips as her fingers thrust into your mouth. When she pulls them out you hear her laugh. She doesn’t try to look through the hole before she leaves.

Nobody ever looks through the hole. This isn’t the kind of place for that. It is a place of shame, of secrets, a place where people come to get off quickly without complications or expectations. Nobody here wants to be noticed. Some people have spouses, kids – it doesn’t matter. Not here, in this half-clean bathroom with its flickering light. It doesn’t matter to you, either. You’re just here to feel useful and blow off some steam.

The next time the door opens you feel better. Less nervous. Excited, even. Wanting. It’s been so long since you’ve gotten laid, and even the last time hadn’t been that good. But now – _here_ – nobody is concerned for your safety. Nobody asks for your consent. Locking yourself in that stall is consent enough.

Your lips part, wet and sticky, as a half-hard cock is stuffed through the hole. Your stomach turns a little in disgust; its fat and white and smells a little, but the rum is in your blood and warms you from the inside, and you take it into your mouth anyway, sucking at it until it’s fully hard. It’s sloppy. Saliva sluices down your chin whenever your gag (but they love it, they love when you gag) and you hear the man’s fists hit the stall wall as he comes.

(If there hadn’t been a wall in the way he would have gripped your hair, held your head down as he came right into your belly.) Phantom hands yank at your hair and you _ache_.

You spit into some toilet paper and shove it into the cistern.

And so the evening goes; you wait, body tensing whenever the bathroom door opens, and you put your mouth to whatever comes through that hole, be it fingers or dicks or cunts or something else, whatever else – sometimes people just come in to use the toilets, leaving without paying you any attention at all, but the thrill is never lost on you.

At around one in the morning – at least you _think_ it’s one, it’s hard to tell in places like this – you finally decide to amble on home to do at least a dozen shots of listerine before collapsing into bed. Just as you’re brushing down your knees and reaching for the lock, however, the bathroom door crashes open and the bathrooms are filled with the sound of raucous laughter.

“It’s fine,” someone says.

“I don’t –,”

“Jesus, Dave, come on. You need to blow off some steam. These people are here for a reason, so while the offer’s here you might as well make use of it. Just this once.”

There’s silence. These people aren’t the same roaring drunkards you’ve been dealing with all night; there’s an odd air of sobriety to them. Eventually the other man sighs.

“Get out.”

With a laugh, the bathroom door creaks and swings shut again.

Silence.

Your heart pounds in your throat. This, for whatever reason, makes you more nervous than you’ve ever been before. The slow, ponderous footsteps approach the stall beside yours, and the door creaks open slowly. You can tell he’s just… standing there. Staring at that hole in the wall, perhaps imagining all the filthy things that have passed through it. Perhaps he’s imagining _you_ , sitting on your knees with your face wet and slick with come. The thought makes you shiver. And then – God – there’s the telltale sound of shifting denim and the grind of a zipper.

You press your hands to the wall on either side of the hall, wide-set and bracing, and you can’t help but peer through; pale, strong hands are working down jeans and the bright buckle of a belt is glinting in the shitty light. It jangles and you swallow, your mouth quite suddenly dry.

His cock isn’t the biggest you’ve ever seen, but it’s still _big_ , uncut and clutched by veins. It’s… tasty-looking, even in _this_ kind of environment which alone is enough to make you heave. Flushed with colour.

You want it in your mouth.

The realisation hits you upside the head and you reel from it for a moment; never once have you actually _wanted_ the things stuck through this hole. You don’t do it because you love dick – you do it because the act is humiliating and anonymous. The revolt that comes with each new half-hard prick that gets stuffed through the hole only exacerbates that.

But this? This… is different. The man’s nervousness is charming. His hesitation. The way he absently strokes himself to full harness. It makes you wonder where his thoughts are, where his imagination is wandering. But eventually he, like every other man, guides his cock through that hole. Your hole, you suppose, though not the hole you’d like it to be in. Not… not yet. Songbirds kick up a tumult in your belly and you lick your lips, swallowing away the sting of use that has set in and pressing your lips around the head before you can have any second thoughts.

A soft _oh_ wafts overhead, sweet and warm and _surprised_. You like that. You like everything about this man even though you’ve seen nothing more than his dick and his hands. Something about him is familiar. Calming, in a sense. It’s as though you’ve smelled the scent of him in a dream, somewhere distant and just out of reach. He tastes clean. Smells clean. Takes care of himself, obviously, which is far more arousing than it ought to be.

The deeper you take him into your mouth the tighter his breath becomes. You lathe your tongue up the underside of his cock, tracing each vein and each turn of flesh, suckling at the head before taking him whole and forcing him into your throat. The girth of him is painful, but it’s always painful. Your throat convulses around him and you try not to heave; you don’t tend to try deepthroating things at a glory-hole, considering the last thing you want is to sit in a pool of your own bile. But this isn’t like all those other times. You can _feel_ the stress and anxiety through the wall of the stall and you just want to suck it right out of his dick; and, oh, you try. You do. Sat there on your knees with your hair unravelling, eyes wet and throat smarting, you try. And he presses himself against the wall, thrusting through that hole and into your mouth, warm and as wet as a summer storm, your pulse pounding through each tastebud.

He comes too soon, something between a moan and a shout rising from his throat as he does, and you catch it all between your teeth and in the dip down the middle of your tongue. You eye the roll of toilet paper. You consider spitting it like you’d spat all the other come.

You swallow it, and through the hole, he sees it.

“Thank… you.” He barely gets the last word out; you watch, somewhat dejected, as he hurriedly stuffs himself back into his jeans and very nearly trips over himself in his haste to get out of the bathroom.

It’s times like this, when you sit on the cold tile of an empty bathroom, that you feel like garbage. Sure, there might be some semblance of intimacy while you’re getting your mouth fucked, but… it always goes. It’s always a lie. A lie of usefulness, and yet all the other times it’s helped you get the stress out of your system. So… why not now? Why not this time?

You try not to think about it. It’s easy enough to gather your things and wash out your mouth with the tepid tapwater, smoothing back your hair and making sure it doesn’t look like you’ve spent the last hour or so on your knees sucking dick. And then you leave, meandering through the haze of the near-empty bar, eyes locked on the exit. The cool air licks at your ankles and you crave the sweet chill of it.

A hand shoots out of nowhere and grabs your upper arm, stopping you so abruptly you almost fall flat on your ass. You turn, the beginning of an insult on your tongue, when –

Your face falls dead and your blood runs cold. Standing there, his grip anchored and deathly tight around you arm, is your boss. He’s staring at you with wide, horrified eyes and it takes you a few long moments to catch up with him; you look down at his hand and then back up to his face, your mind sluggishly connecting the fingers in your coat to the fingers that had only five minutes ago been unbuckling his belt. He stares, watching as your eyes widen and your mouth goes slack.

“Where are you going?” he demands, and you don’t have it in you to be catty.

“Home,” you reply weakly.

“Who with?” He’s just like he is on the field, you think – dry, curt. His eyes are far too bright for such a dark room, but you can’t look away, not when they’re so close, hovering above you like moons, bright and pale. His entire face is cast into shadow and for a moment you contemplate kissing him.

“Nobody.”

His hand doesn’t leave your arm. Somehow you manage a half-sneer.

“Angry?” you ask. “What I do is none of your business –,”

“It is my business,” Allen snarls, pulling you in close so he doesn’t need to raise his voice. You were right – he’s stone cold sober. The smell of alcohol is too faint. “You’re coming home with me.”

It hits like a punch to the chest. You can’t breathe and your body is singing. “And if I don’t want to go with you?”

Allen is silent. He appraises you, eyes darting to your lips and your neck. You’re so close you can feel him breathing. You can smell him. Remembering how his cock felt in your throat has you _dripping_ , and as that thought chases others of the same kind – namely those hands peeling your out of your clothes and working you over thoroughly – you look away, eyelids fluttering nervously.

“You do.”

Breathe in. Throat trembling. Allen leads you like a dog by the arm until you both stand outside, where he pushes you away and releases his hold. You miss it before his fingers even leave your arm.

“ _Why_?”

“I was… stressed,” you manage in a voice that is, quite honestly, pathetic. “It’s a… uh. Method I have.”

Allen’s mad. Of course he’s mad. You’re embarrassed, sort of… you would’ve been if the idea of him catching you wasn’t so fucking arousing. He’s glaring at you like he just can’t understand and, oh, you love him for it – for that endearing concern and his constipated way of showing it.

“If your stress is so bad then _tell_ me.” He’s close again, voice a growl.

You can’t help but laugh. “Tell you? What do you plan to do about it?” It’s a challenge – that much is obvious in your voice and the glint of your teeth.

Allen’s face settles to concrete and he pushes you back into the shadows of the eaves, until your back hits the brick, anchoring you with a hand against your shoulder. His other hand shoves up between your legs and you gasp, a sound that soon melts into a moan. Just the touch has your knees practically shaking, and you barely notice Allen pressing his face close to your neck until his lips are on it. Your hands clutch at him, dragging him closer, face buried in his shoulder. Oh, you’d let him fuck you right _here_ , right against this wall –

“Come home with me and let me show you.”


	23. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back on the proper list now !!! also there isnt really any sex in this once, i was just feelin it

“Can I see?”

It’s a morose kind of question, really, especially when asked in the bedroom. But you can’t just _not_ ask, not when Allen winces every time he tries to fuck you. It seems to hurt him whenever he tries, no matter what position you’re in, and more often than not you both end up sitting on the bed. Allen always looks a little ashamed.

“Do you want to?” His voice is so quiet; he’s embarrassed, you can tell. He wears his shirt a lot, these days. Says he doesn’t want you to have to look at it, even though you’ve told him over and over that you don’t mind.

“Of course I do, David,” you say softly. Hearing you say his name like that makes his features soften, and for a moment he almost smiles; you help him tug his shirt over his head and kiss him when he sits naked in front of you, his blushing cheeks hot under your lips. “I don’t see why you’re so –,” Your voice fades when you see it, though: a big, ugly thing running from shoulder to hip, right over the ridges of his ribs, purple and red and bound by thick black thread. “Oh, Dave…”

“I told you,” he mutters, snatching his shirt from out of your hands and hastening to put it on. “I don’t want you seeing it.” But you stop him – you wrangle his shirt from his hands and throw it into a corner of the room, grasping his shoulders in your hands and forcing him to look at you.

“ _David,_ ” you say sternly. “I love you. All of you. Every scratch and bump and – Christ, I knew it was bad, but…” You shake your head vigorously to rid you of the thought of what might have happened if they hadn’t dragged Allen out from under that collapsed scaffolding when they did. “You should’ve…”

Truthfully? You didn’t think it was that bad. You decided to respect Allen’s privacy when he said he was conscious of his new scar. You hadn’t… _realised_ just how bad the wound was. And it was ugly to look at, sure: the sutures reminded you of great black flies sewed into his skin, and the closure of the wound was puckered and angry. But it didn’t inspire revolt; rather, it inspired a deep and sorrowful ache in your chest that you couldn’t seem to swallow.

“I love you,” you say again, hands cupping Allen’s face – his handsome, beautiful face – and bringing him in to kiss his lips, already half-way open with a response. “You’re handsome as always, by the way, regardless of how torn up you get.”

He _laughs_ at that and his hands come to sit at your waist. Gentle. Appreciative. You wish you had more hands than two just to touch him all over, to feel every square inch of him. A pipe-dream, perhaps, but the thought of showing Allen how much you love him makes you lightheaded all the same.

“Let me try.” You move him gently, conscious of the way his skin tugs at the stitches, until he lies on his back. It’s difficult to see him like this, when he’s cast so completely into the shadow of your body, but his eyes are full of light. The streetlights buzz outside your window and filter through the blinds, hitting his face at odd yet mesmerising angles. It’s like he’s stepped out of a dream, face shifting like water. Helpless, you lean down to kiss him again. “Take it easy,” you mumble against his lips. “And tell me if anything hurts.”

Allen agrees by way of a grunt; you’re already kissing down his neck, the tendons and ropes of muscle shifting under your lips as you do. You skirt over the whispers of old hickeys and love-bites, the faded indentation of teeth, the little scar where he’d had a melanoma cut out a few years back. You hover over that one, thinking for a moment, and sit up to meed Allen’s startled eyes.

“I want to do something,” you say. Allen stares at you dumbly for a little while.

“What kind of thing?”

You tap the melanoma scar and he frowns, unable to tear his eyes from the shape of your body as you sit astride his thighs. “I want you to show me what your scars mean,” you explain. “Each one I visit deserves a story.”

“I can’t remember _all_ of them,” Allen tells you, but he chuckles as he does, hand reaching out to stroke your knee. You smile and tell him it’s all right, that you’ll do what you can to show him that you appreciate each and every part of who he is, scars and all.

The first scar your tongue meets is small and circular, dead in the centre of Allen’s left shoulder. You kiss it, run your tongue over its ridges, try to picture what might have caused it. Allen strokes your hair and tells you of it, unprompted, when your tongue presses.

“I got shot on my first SWAT callout,” he admits, laughing so low in his throat that it vibrates beneath your cheek. “By one of our own guys, too. He had to run a hundred laps of the precinct.” It’s a fond memory, one that Allen sometimes recalls whenever his own fingers pass over the wound.

His hand stays woven in your hair as you pass down his chest, nose skimming between his pectorals; there’s a thin, silvery slash a few inches above his right nipple. You’ve noticed that once before, shimmering like the moon in the right light, and the hair doesn’t grow there anymore. “This one?” It’s a whisper chastened against his skin, more of a kiss than a word.

“Uh… from when I was a kid, I think. Swimming in a river, that’s right.” He smiles as the memory settles warm and soft like a blanket; _you_ smile at that. “Tore it open on a stick.”

You kiss it. It’s small, insignificant little things like that that make up a person, and you treasure it.

There’s a mark on his belly larger than the others. It’s one you always noticed, right from the first time you saw Allen without a shirt. “You already know about that one,” he mutters.

“Tell me again.”

He sighs and scratches his fingernails against your scalp. “I got hit by a car when I was seventeen. That’s from landing on the asphalt wrong.”

There are the other usual ones: an appendectomy, a smallpox vaccine, a mark on his shin where he’d broken his leg. There are nicks and scars from his time in the force, and like the paintings in a cave they make up a story from his boyhood to his present: they spoke of his clumsy navigation through teenagerhood, his emergence into the world of adults, all the scrapes and bangs of becoming the SWAT captain. You traced the links with your fingers, as though connecting the dots, jumping from star to star. Finally you settle your hand just beside his newest wound. His largest.

“You could have died, you know,” you tell him mutedly. He does know. He can’t sleep because of it, sometimes. He lies there silent, just staring at you.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah.” _But I didn’t. I’m here. I’m alive._

You sink into his arms and kiss along the sides of his wound; not close enough to touch and not close enough to hurt, but close _enough_. Enough. Allen is more than enough. You tell him that you love him and he smiles, saying you’ve already said it twice.

“Doesn’t matter,” you reply. “I can never tell you enough.”

You don’t have sex, not that night. It’s enough just to lie there in the heart of a slumbering city and listen to each other’s heartbeats. It’s enough. It’s enough.


End file.
